


All Around Me Was Dark

by DraconianDevil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Ala Big Little Lies, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Big Little Lies inspired, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secrets hurt, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, for some of them at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraconianDevil/pseuds/DraconianDevil
Summary: An argument could be made that, if Peter Parker hadn’t moved to Stanley Cove, no one would have died. An even more refined argument would be that if Peter Parker had not stopped to help Tony Stark during the Summer Fair, no one would have died. But both these things happened, and, well, somebody’s dead.Peter and  May Parker move to Stanley Cove, California to restart their life. But the shadows of their recent tragedy still follows them, and Peter discovers that the sunny, seaside community has plenty of darkness on its own. When Peter ends up on Tony Stark's radar, things begin to escalate as the teenager is drawn into the complex web of lies, lust and betrayal that boils beneath Stanley Cove's surface.Inspired by HBO's "Big Little Lies".





	1. It Started In The Summer; It Started With A Handshake

**Author's Note:**

> This started when one day I thought: "What about 'Big Little Lies'...but MCU?"  
> Disclaimer though: This work will not tackle the same issues as the TV show, but rather tries to emulate the feel and narrative style of that show. 
> 
> Title taken from "Trembling Hands" by The Temper Trap. Shout out to my bestfriend, who helped me pick the song for the title. The moment I listened to it, I saw opening credits. You truly are my seraph <3.
> 
> Also to my wonderful editor, who suffers through middle of the night phonecalls and my bullshit.

 

_November 1, 2017, 11:04 am, post-mortem_

 

          The moment Maria Hill, mayor of Stanley Cove City, California, stepped up to the podium, the assembled journalists all started talking, creating a wall of indecipherable noise with their questions. With a single, economical gesture, Mayor Hill silenced the crowd of reporters and began the press conference. After the pleasantries and general platitudes had been dispensed, she got down to business.

 

          “It pains me to be the first mayor of Stanley Cove in twelve years to have such a violent crime occur during their term,” Hill intoned gravely. As with everything she did, the speech had been meticulously prepared and rehearsed, as much as she was able to, given that the murder had only occurred the night before. She went on to comfort the alarmed citizenry, highlighting the recent ordinances and policies she had implemented to better safeguard the peace.

 

          “Needless to say, getting to the bottom of this heinous crime, which has shaken our community to the core, will be my top priority,” she concluded, giving the press pool a smile that conveyed both resolve and comfort. Even her makeup had been strategically applied: not too much, to show that she had been up early and not wasted time primping, but just enough to make her look good.

 

          Her second term was practically guaranteed.

 

          “Mayor Hill,” shouted a journalist in the back, “has this been officially been declared a murder?”

 

          “Questions regarding the criminal investigation will be answered by our chief of police who has my every confidence,” Hill declared, then paused.

 

          “But yes, we are ruling that this is a murder,” she said, before stepping away from the microphone and gesturing for Nick Fury to take her place.

 

 ****************

 

          Nicholas J Fury had been chief of police of Stanley Cove for ten years now. He knew that messed up shit hid behind the doors of the luxurious beach houses. But so far, the messed up shit had stayed hidden, with no body count to give it form. The only time he had seen a murder committed with such violence and ferocity like last night was back when he was captain of a precinct in Los Angeles.

 

 _Real_ messed up shit.

 

          “The body was found late last night at 12:43 am,” Fury began, “in the grounds of Stanley Cove Technical High School, shortly after their Halloween Fundraiser. The coroner has ruled that the victim was killed somewhere between 11:30 and 12:30.”

 

          “What was the cause of death?” Nick did not recognize the reporter who posed the question. Which meant that she was from out of town. Or worse, one them news bloggers, ready to slap a catchy hashtag on the case before leaping to the wrong conclusions. Jesus, what a shitshow this was going to turn into.

 

          “Based on preliminary reports, the victim was a laundry list of physical trauma: five cracked ribs, broken clavicle, and all the phalanges of the right hand had also been broken.” Fury paused to take in the ghoulish interest of the assembled press before continuing. “The victim’s nose had also been broken, and several teeth had fallen out due to a powerful blow to the face. There were several deep lacerations and multiple contusions spread throughout the body. An autopsy is underway to ascertain the extent of the injuries. But to answer your question, the apparent cause of death were multiple stab wounds to the torso.”

 

          “Do you have a suspect?” Ah, the inevitable next question.

 

          “Currently, we do not yet have a single suspect,” Nick admitted, “We are, however interrogating and looking into everyone who attended the high school’s fund raising Halloween event. But, give us time folks, we’ve only been investigating for ten hours.” Nick was suddenly exhausted. Ten hours. It had _only_  been ten hours.

 

          “Last question,” he snarled into the microphone. Maria Hill cast him a sidelong glance, but did not object. Unity in all things, or at least the _appearance_  of unity, was one of the foundations of her tenure as mayor.

 

          “Who will be handling the investigation?”

 

          “Naturally, the entire police department of Stanley Cove will contribute to the investigation,” Fury answered, “but Detective Natasha Romanoff will be the one calling the shots on this one. That will be all.” And with that, Fury strode off, leaving Hill to handle the rest. She would have words him later, that was sure, but for now, Nick needed to meet with Natasha.

 

          They had an autopsy to attend.

 

****************

          An argument could be made that, if Peter Parker hadn’t moved to Stanley Cove, no one would have died. An even more refined argument would be that if Peter Parker had not stopped to help Tony Stark during the Summer Fair, no one would have died. But both these things happened, and, well, somebody’s dead.

__

**************

__

_June 4, 2017, 10:13 am, ante-mortem_

 

          “Look, we have to at least give it a try,” May Parker explained to Peter, “We’re already new here, let’s not be the outcasts, too.” They were in their car, a pre-owned, two-door Toyota noticeably less flashy and more used than the other vehicles lining up to enter the Summer Fair’s parking lot. She glanced at Peter, sitting next to her in the passenger seat.

 

          “It’s summer, and we’re in California. We need to get some sun and fun!” she chirped with mock enthusiasm, gesturing out of her open window. A breeze brought the smell of the ocean to them, salt and sand drifting on the wind.

 

          Peter made a noise in his throat that could mean anything. Moving had been difficult for him, May knew. He had left his best friend, Ned, back in New York. But she couldn’t stay in the apartment any longer. Not even a year after what had happened. And it certainly wasn’t healthy for Peter. Especially for Peter. She needed to make this up to him somehow.

 

          “Hey, why don’t you drive?”

 

          That perked him up. “Seriously?” Peter’s eyes suddenly focused on her, with a light she hadn’t seen in weeks.

 

          “Sure,” she smiled, “but just until we park. You need practice, after all. So park it, Parker.”

 

          Peter groaned at the terrible word play, the corners of his mouth twitching. It was enough for him to try to smile. He used to smile all the time.

 

          They switched seats, May getting out of the car while he sidled over to the driver’s seat. They were just in time, too, as the line of cars began to move forward. Peter eased the car forward, concentrating on not rear-ending the extremely expensive looking Mercedes in front of them.

 

          Which was fortunate, because the Mercedes suddenly stopped. Peter slammed his foot down on the brake not a moment too soon to avoid crashing into it.

 

**************** 

 

          “Motherfucker!” Tony Stark swore. The teenagers in the car in front of him had stopped, without any indication…to take a fucking selfie. To make matters worse, the driver was the one taking the shot. Not even a week into summer and it was already a nightmare.

 

          “JARVIS, this is how teenagers die,” Tony rumbled, addressing his prototype AI. Installing the AI who ran his house and oversaw his company’s network into his car had been a bitch, but it gave him someone to talk during long drives.

 

          Or someone to vent to when he got into a disagreement with other drivers. Which was often.

 

          “ _Very astutely observed, sir_ ” the cool, British voice of the program responded, “ _but there are actually-_ ”

 

          “They’re taking another shot?” Tony shouted, incredulously, cutting off JARVIS from listing other leading causes of teenaged deaths. “That’s it, I’m going over there. They need to get yelled at.”

 

          “ _Might I suggest not using excessive force or language?_ ”

 

          “Fuck that,” Tony snarled, getting out of the car.

 

          Behind him, a shitty two-door Toyota gave a half-hearted beep of its horn. Tony ignored it and strode to the car full of idiots, rapping his knuckles hard on the driver’s window.

 

          It rolled down, exposing an impatient looking girl. “What?” was the only thing she said, while her dumbass friends all suppressed snickers and smiles. One of them took a long, noisy slurp of his iced latte. Tony thought he heard one of them whisper “Shit, it’s Mr Stark.”

 

          “Do you idiots realize you nearly wrecked my car?” Tony demanded. After a moment’s consideration, he added “And gotten hurt or whatever.”

 

          The girl began to protest, waving her manicured hands, one of which was still clutching the stupid phone. Tony tuned out her voice, reached inside and plucked the phone from her hand.

 

          “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” the girl yelped.

 

           Tony ignored it and took out his phone – and by his, as in one he made himself, because when you can design an AI that made Siri seem like a Speak-and-Spell, why not? It looked just like a piece of glass the same size of a smartphone but with a plastic frame. He slapped it on the girl’s sequined iPhone. Both screens flared to life.

 

           “ _I have access to all systems and functions, sir_ ,” JARVIS’ voice came a little tinny from his phone’s speakers.

 

          “JARVIS, lock all her phone’s functions for an hour, and all camera functions for twenty-four hours.”

 

          The AI immediately complied and, in seemingly no time at all, it was done.

 

          “Here,” Tony said, tossing the temporarily useless phone on the girl’s lap. “Enjoy your plastic brick for the next hour. Maybe you can use it as a paperweight until then.” He smiled smugly at the girl before turning back to his own car.

 

**************** 

 

           Peter was smiling from ear to ear. He had seen and heard everything by poking his head out of the window.

 

           “What just happened?” May didn’t really have a good view of what had transpired, being on the passenger side.

 

            The middle-aged guy driving the Mercedes was wearing a silver blazer over a Pink Floyd shirt, jeans artfully ripped at the knees, and sunglasses. From just his bearded face, Peter would have already called him handsome. But the fact that he had just hacked into someone’s  phone in a second…well, _that_  was impressive. He didn’t really need to get a good look at the man’s phone to be sure it was not something on the market. So either a very new model, possibly a prototype, or something the man himself had made.

 

          The man was returning to his car, back turned to the sputtering and raging teenaged girl. He had no idea that the driver had snatched her friend’s iced latte and had thrown it at him. She missed, but the drink splashed on the heels of the man’s vintage sneakers. He tried to sidestep or hop away from the liquid, cursing as he did, when he stepped on a large piece of ice and slipped.

 

****************

 

            Tony knew at that something was wrong with his ankle, even as he fell awkwardly on one knee. The choice of wearing ripped jeans seemed to have bitten him on the ass, as his bare knee scraped on the asphalt. He tried to stand up but wobbled on his injured ankle and fell once more.

 

**************** 

 

            “Ouch,” May said, wincing. Then she brightened up. “The car in front of him is moving again. Quick, go around him.” Peter began to do as he was told, carefully angling the car away from the man and his Mercedes and going forward.

 

           They were only a dozen feet away when he glanced at the rear view mirror. The man’s sunglasses had slipped off and he was clinging to the hood of his car for support. From the way his hand curled, he was in pain. The few cars behind them, whose drivers had already begun to get impatient during the altercation, all passed by without stopping.

 

          “Shouldn’t we at least help him?” Peter frowned.    

  

           May was about to argue before she sighed. “Yes, yes we do. Sorry, that was New York talking back there for a second. Can you go make sure he’s okay, sweetie? I’ll keep an eye on the car.”

 

           Peter nodded and parked to the side, making sure the blinkers were on. He ran a hand through his hair to fix it or straightened his shirt, and got out of the car.

 

**************** 

 

           Tony was going kill every teenager he could find in Stanley Cove. Worse, he was going to _deny the internet_  to every teenager in Stanley Cove. Theoretically, he could do it. Nearly seventy percent of the city relied on his company for IT solutions: software upgrades and cybersecurity, the works. And JARVIS could melt through firewalls like a lightsabre through droids.

 

           He reached up to push his sunglasses up his nose, only to realize that they had slipped off and had clattered under his car. Great. Five thousand bucks, and they can’t even stay on his fucking nose.

 

           “How can I help?” The voice undoubtedly belonged to a soon-to-be-endangered species known as Stanley Cove Teen, but the accent was all wrong. It sounded more like the accent of the very delectable wannabe-marine biologist he had met in Queens a few years back.

 

            Tony looked up and saw the most vulnerable-looking, but also desirable, teenaged boy. He wasn’t very tall, a little shorter than Tony himself, but with a lean frame that was nearly hidden by the loose t-shirt and jeans he was sporting. The boy’s hair was a rich brown, pushed back from his face, which radiated concern.

 

            But it was the eyes that got Tony. They were like shots of whiskey: intoxicating and heady. 

 

            Steady now.

 

            “Help me up, please,” Tony said, holding out his arm. Please? Had Tony Stark actually said  _please_?

 

            The boy took his arm and gently helped him to his feet, murmuring “slowly, you got it, there we go” under his breath. Tony leaned on the side of his car.

 

            “Thanks, kid.”

 

            The boy blushed. And started fidgeting. “Nah, it was nothing. Uhm, I can get your sunglasses for you? I don’t think you can, I mean, I know you can’t reach them. So, can I help you get your sunglasses?”

 

             Tony didn’t know how to respond except with a “Sure thing. Thanks.” The boy was still blushing when he got down on all fours and crawled halfway under the car. Tony nonchalantly looked down on the wriggling, teenaged boy at his feet and spied that the loose shirt had ridden up, exposing some very pale skin on the boy’s back, along with the slightest hint of the boy’s ass peeking from the waistband of his jeans. Perky.

 

              Deep breaths, Tony. The boy may _look_  eighteen but, _is_ he eighteen?

 

              “New to Stanley Cove, aren’t you?” Tony said, looking up and away from the boy’s ass.

 

              “Uhm, how can you tell?” came the nervous voice from under his car.

 

               “Tiny things, kid. Like you don’t have a tan when this is a beach town, but you could be a recluse who stays indoors. You don’t know who I am when, not to brag, I’m kind of a big deal around these part. Then again Miss Iced Latte didn’t know who I was either. But mostly because your accent is pure Queens.”

 

               The kid stood up, shirt a little rumpled and a tad dusty, eyes wide with amazement. “That was awesome,” the kid declared, “you were like that guy from _Sherlock_.”

 

               Tony frowned, “You mean Sherlock Holmes? Nah, don’t have his cheekbones, but I have more chest hair. And do I remotely sound British to you?”

 

               The boy laughed, such a rich and _youthful_ sound, before handing over the sunglasses he had just fished from under the Mercedes. Tony stuck them into the front pocket of his blazer.

 

               “Not at all,” the boy said, still chuckling. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” Peter extended a hand, which trembled a little.

 

                Tony grasped it firmly and shook. The kid’s hands were nearly as calloused as his.

 

                “Anthony Howard Stark, but nobody calls me Howard.” He paused. “Or Anthony, for that matter. You know what, just call me Tony.”

 

                 Peter smiled. “Sure thing, Mr Stark.”

 

                 Cheeky or respectful? Either way, Tony liked him.

 

                 “Headed for the fair?”

 

                 Peter nodded, “Me and my aunt May. She said we should socialize, being new to town and all.” He paused and seemed to remember something. Tony waited patiently for him to speak up. “Can we offer you a ride if you’re headed there, too? I don’t think you can drive with an ankle like that.”

 

                 “I’d love that,” said Tony, smiling back. “You’re an intrinsically smart person Peter, by the way. And kind, too.”

 

                 “How’d you figure that?”

 

                 Tony shrugged. “The first thing you asked me wasn’t if I was okay, because I clearly wasn’t. You asked how you could help me.”

 

                 Peter grinned and blushed again. Words seemed to have escaped him. Peter turned away to lead the way to the car. It was then that they both realized they hadn’t let go of each other’s hands yet.

 

                 Tony let go first, and he didn’t fail to notice the disappointed look that flashed for a moment on Peter’s face at the loss of contact.

 

                 “You’re gonna have to help me into the car, kid,” he offered, gesturing at his ankle. Well, it was the wrong ankle, but Peter got the message and immediately slung an arm around Tony’s torso. The kid’s hand was a lot lower that what was called for, very nearly at his waist.

 

                 Bold move. Tony made his own, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulder, so that they could limp towards the car. Peter was stronger than he looked, helping Tony amble along with only a little effort, plus he had youth on his side. Time to test the waters.

 

                 Slowly, his face betraying nothing, Tony reached up with the arm around Peter’s shoulder and ran his thumb along the boy’s jawline before settling on the kid’s pulse point.

 

                 At their proximity, he had an exquisite view of Peter swallowing a lump in his throat. And he heard Peter whisper something that sounded a lot like “fuck”, under his breath, probably hoping his strained breathing would hide it.

 

                 Lucky for Peter, they had reached the car, from which a good looking woman who must be Peter’s aunt emerged. Tony dropped his hands from the kid’s neck.

 

                 The kid was __so__  into him. Tony suppressed the grin he felt was way too lascivious for the kid’s aunt to see.

 

                 Apparently, he was wrong. The summer was going to be great.


	2. Complications; An Embrace

_November 1, 2017, 11:32 am, post-mortem_ ****

 

          Natasha Romanoff was waiting for Fury at the parking lot of Stanley Cove Teaching Hospital, near the morgue entrance. She carefully ground the cigarette she had been smoking on the sole her low-heeled boots before unceremoniously tossing it into some nearby shrubbery.

 

          “How was the press conference, chief?” she asked when Fury was close enough. He didn’t break stride and went inside the building. She fell in step beside him.

 

          “Detective, you do know that smoking is now illegal around hospitals, right?”

 

          “That bad, huh.”

 

          “Worse,” Fury admitted, “It pisses me off when I can’t tell them anything. Makes us look like fools.”

 

          “We’ll have plenty to tell them soon enough,” Natasha said as they reached the morgue doors. “Forensics wrapped up at the scene a few hours go. This case is priority, so we should have lab results in three to four days, tops. Hill called in every favour she’s ever had.”

 

          Fury grunted in response. Actually, _he_ had called in every favour he ever had. Forensics wasn’t as quick as they showed on _CSI_. It didn’t matter if this case was a priority. If you have to rely on some other facility to get your evidence processed, your results will take forever. The average processing time for DNA evidence were weeks, even months If Stanley Cove wanted crimes like this solved faster, they ought to give lab equipment a bigger budget.

 

          “Who’s doing the autopsy?” he asked Natasha. They reached the preparation area and began donning scrubs and hairnets.

 

          “Strange, as in Stephen Strange,” she answered, smearing menthol on her upper lip. She was being cautious. The body had still been warm when it was found and, once forensics had been done with it, was immediately taken to and refrigerated at the morgue. There was no chance of any decomposition whose stench would warrant the menthol. But you never knew. Abdominal wounds often punctured the intestines, the sewers of the body.

 

          Fury took the tube of menthol and applied some himself.

 

          “Strange, huh?” he said, handing Natasha back the tube, “Autopsies aren’t usually his thing.”

 

          The detective shrugged. “Hill asked for him personally. Make him prove those double doctorates were earned, not bought.”

 

          “Eaten anything?” Fury said, as they both slipped on surgical masks.

 

          Natasha shrugged again. “Had a big breakfast. Some hash browns with a dash of cayenne.”

 

          “You might regret that in a few minutes.”

 

          Natasha chuckled. “I doubt it.”

 

          “Could use a big breakfast myself: nice crispy bacon with a side of scrambled eggs” Fury sighed. He had maybe forty cups of coffee since midnight, but no real food.

 

          “Is the breakfast talk really necessary?” came the doctor’s drawl from inside the morgue.  

 

          Fury and Natasha shared a look before entering the morgue proper. Working with Strange was like getting your teeth cleaned: uncomfortable and rarely seemed to be worth it. But there were ways of making it pleasant.

 

          “Sorry, Doc,” said Natasha in a bright voice. Strange had a thing for redheads.  Smiling would have worked better, but the mask made it redundant.

 

          The good doctor himself was already in full gear, while the macabre tools he needed to delve the body were arrayed near him on a rolling table. The scalpels, bone saw and rib spreader all gleamed under the surgical lights. A selection of slides, vials and miniscule containers were also present, for samples recovered from the body.

 

          “Must you tempt those who had to drive from LA on an empty stomach?” huffed Strange. While he was Chief of Medicine of Stanley Cove Teaching Hospital, he often had conferences in Los Angeles. Personally, Fury thought that the doctor went there to indulge on high-priced call girls in sexy nurse uniforms far from prying eyes.

 

          Strange led them towards the refrigerated drawers that held the body.

 

          “We can discuss the findings over lunch,” Natasha suggested, innocently touching Strange’s gloved hand. Fury nearly snorted in his mask. “Innocent” had been in Natasha’s rear view mirror long before she reached twenty two. The woman had red in her book, and both of them knew it.

 

          “If the two of you still have an appetite after this,” Strange sniffed, “I’ll foot the bill.”

 

          “Done.”

 

          Strange pulled the drawer out. The body lay on it, completely naked. Except that it was clothed and limned in blood and wounds. It was a study in scarlet, pink, purple and maroon on a canvas of pale flesh.

 

          “Jesus Christ,” whispered Strange. Fury had forgotten that this was his first time seeing the body. But he knew the doctor wouldn’t vomit or panic; Strange was a surgeon as well as a medical doctor.

 

          “He wasn’t around to help this one,” Natasha murmured.

 

          “This wasn’t just murder,” Fury said, voice flat, “This was punishment.”

 

          “What for?” Strange wondered, slightly aghast.

 

          “Well, doc, that’s what we’d like to find out.”

 

 

__June 4, 2017, 10:16 am, ante-mortem__  

 

          Peter had resolved to low-key flirt with the man when he had gotten out of the car. Even in New York, his taste in crushes had ran to the, shall we say, _mature_. Ned had given him endless shit about it, always asking Peter if he was getting hot for one of their male teachers. The answer had always been a metaphorically resounding “no.”

 

          It wasn’t his fault his sexual awakening was to men like Brad Pitt, DeCaprio and Bowie. He liked older men with confidence and flair. Maybe with a little attitude…ok, a _lot_  of attitude.

 

           Oh, and smart. Having six-pack abs, a killer smile and good taste in clothes can be hot. But a man who knows how to code in Malbolge is another beast entirely.

 

          So for Peter, Anthony Howard Stark was like sex on legs. One of which had a swollen ankle, the other with a scraped knee.

 

          Still hot, though.

 

          Peter was pretty sure he had seen several customized parts added to the Mercedes’ engine and axle when he had slipped under it to retrieve the man’s sunglasses. And he was certain that it was running on electricity, but from what power source, he didn’t know. And, if the callouses on Mr Stark’s hands were any indication, he had installed them himself.

 

          When Mr Stark scraped his thumb slowly along Peter’s jaw, all that admiration and lust jumped straight down to his crotch. Thank God that he was in a slightly hunched position, supporting Stark’s weight.

 

          May had leapt out of the car to help him usher Mr Stark into the passenger seat. He managed to pass Mr Stark to her and clamber into the driver’s seat before she could see the front of his jeans.

 

          “Well, you said I could drive until we park,” Peter said, when she saw him behind the wheel. May shrugged and squeezed into the backseat.

 

          Mr Stark, however, was looking at him with a small, sly smile. Which he steadfastly did not return. He had to bite down on his lips to help him steadfastly not return it.

 

          “Peter, let’s go.”

 

          May’s voice startled him, but he drove forward and finally entered the Fair’s parking lot. He tried to multitask: 1) look for a spot, 2) keep an eye on Mr Stark, 3) listen to the conversation he and May were having, and 4) try to subdue his raging erection.

 

          “So, May, can I call you May? When did you and Peter move here to delightful Stanley Cove?” He felt Mr Stark’s large and calloused hand rub his shoulder when he heard his name.

 

          Task 4 was failing miserably.

 

          “About a week ago. And yes, you can call me May, if I can call you Tony.”

 

          “Please, _only_  call me Tony. Mr Stark sounds a little EL James. Gets me all hot and bothered.”

 

          Was _Mr Stark_  hinting at something? He was, wasn’t he?

 

          Peter realized that a prime parking spot had opened up. He tried to make it there in time but another driver beat him to it. He drove onward, circling the lot.

 

          “So, what do you do?” Mr Stark continued. Probably because of May’s presence, his hand was no longer on Peter.

 

          “I do freelance accounting,” May answered, “Worked for a long while in a large firm, but recent developments made me scale down, you know?”

 

          “I actually own and run a local tech company,” Mr Stark said, “We sometimes employ freelance accountants to do our books. Do you have a card? I can afford to pay double your usual rate, if we ever take you on.”

 

          If Mr Stark had been trying to score brownie points with May, he would have just hit jackpot. “That would be wonderful!” she said, as she fished around in her purse for her business card. “I don’t have a client base yet, and that would be amazing. Please recommend me to everyone you know.”

 

          Mr Stark chuckled and assured her he would, tucking her card into his pocket. Once again, he turned to Peter and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “What about you? Applying at local colleges or dreaming of Caltech?”

 

          College? Why would we he be applying for colleges already? Of course, he was already considering a few, including Caltech, just not that actively yet. Maybe next year, he would start working on his applications more seriously but-

 

          Shit.

 

          Mr Stark thought he was eighteen.

 

          Shit.

 

          May laughed, “Peter’s not in college yet. He’s starting eleventh grade at Stanley Cove Technical on August. Don’t know his plans for the summer yet, though.”

 

          At the mention of “eleventh grade” Mr Stark’s hand beat a hasty retreat.

 

          One more, with feeling: S H I T.

 

          “Well, that’s why families with _children_  move to Stanley Cove,” Mr Stark said, voice still pleasant…but Peter could detect something that was like frustration in it. Maybe a little disgust.

 

          At Peter or himself?

 

          “It’s basically private school education with public school prices,” Mr Stark continued as he put his sunglasses on, “Perfect for aspiring _seventeen_  year-olds.”

 

          If ever he had had a shot with Mr Stark, _he_ had messed it up by being a year too young. _His fault _.__ He should have known by now that it will always be _his fault _.__ Peter’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Bitterness and disappointment made him floor the pedal.

 

          The car shot forward, May letting out a small shriek and Mr Stark exclaiming “Fuck!”

 

          Peter had been aiming for the last parking space in a row near the Fair’s entrance. As the Toyota surged forward, it very nearly collided with a blue pickup truck that had been going for the same spot. Thanks to Peter’s bold - dangerous, reckless, thoughtless - move, he beat the truck and got the spot.

 

          “Peter, what the hell was that?” May shouted, climbing out of the car to talk to the driver of the pickup. Peter took a few calming breaths and followed her out, not glancing at Mr Stark as he did.

 

          The owner of the pickup had also gotten out of his vehicle.

 

          Peter was actually afraid of the guy.

 

          The man was tall, and Built. His chest strained his grey t-shirt, while the cuffs defined biceps that seemed thicker than one of Peter’s thighs. The man’s blonde hair was smoothed back in a style that was very Pre-War. His face was stern and statuesque, with vivid blue eyes that were crackling with rage.

 

          Until he saw that Peter was a kid. Sometimes it’s a curse, sometimes it’s a blessing.

 

          Instead of the testosterone-induced rage that Peter was expecting from someone who could be the new face of Masculinity™, the man said “Are you okay? I hope I didn’t scare you or your mother?” There was genuine concern in his voice, too. Even his eyes had thawed, the rage gone, replaced with a gentle curiosity.

 

          May was flustered. Clearly, she had been expecting a different kind of confrontation, if her clenched fists were anything to go by. She hurriedly shifted mental gears.

 

          “We’re okay, thank you for asking,” May said, relieved that the man wasn’t angry, “I don’t know what came over my nephew.” At the last word, she shot Peter a glare that said he wouldn’t be driving anytime soon.

 

          “Steve Rogers, at your service,” said the man, holding out his hand and smiling. There was future for him in toothpaste ads, Peter thought. Or underwear modelling.

 

          May shook the hand and introduced herself, apologizing as she did.

 

          Then Steve offered Peter his hand.

 

          “I’m Peter,” he mumbled, feeling the massive hand engulf his own.

 

          “Well, Peter,” Steve said, still smiling, “promise me you’re going to pay a lot more attention to driving classes, okay?” Then he turned solemn, and bent forward to look at Peter face to face. “You could have gotten into a costly accident there, or worse, gotten hurt.”

 

          Peter nodded in response, trying not to fidget under the scrutiny. Was everyone in this town so __hot__?

 

          “Hey Steve, got lost on the way to Castle Grayskull?”

 

          Mr Stark had hobbled out of the car, leaning nonchalantly on the roof. He peered at Steve over his sunglasses. “He bothering you, kid?”

 

          “No, n-no! It was my fault,” Peter stammered, “I guess I just really wanted that spot, and I didn’t see your truck. I’m sorry, Mr Rogers.”

 

          Steve chuckled, “Just Steve, Peter. No need to make me feel old.”

 

          “Don’t apologize, kid,” Mr Stark said, airily, “You saw something you wanted and you went for it. Steve’s kinda hopeless in that area.”

 

          There was moment of silence. Peter looked at both men to confirm it – there was certainly tension between them.

 

          Steve laughed suddenly, though it sounded a little forced. He clapped a hand on Peter’s back, which nearly toppled him over like a bowling pin. “Don’t worry about it Peter,” he said, “I should have seen your car, too. Some of the blame’s mine.”  Steve stepped back and walked to his truck.

 

          “Anyway, you two should stop by our booth; it’s called Triskelion Fitness” he called to Peter and May as he climbed into the cab, “Maybe we can make your summer a little productive.” He tipped them a salute before driving off to find a place to park.

 

          Peter saw the dangerous, frightening look come back to Steve’s blue eyes before he sped away. Only this time, they were trained on Mr Stark’s smugly smiling face.

 

          “Shall we?” Mr Stark said, gesturing at the Fair entrance.

 

 

 

_June 4, 2017, 10:31 am, ante-mortem_  

 

          The Summer Fair was situated on a long, paved area that hugged one of the best beaches in Stanley Cove. There were stalls selling everything from fresh produce to Tiffany glassware to fusion street food. Music, a dizzying selection of sound, streamed out from handheld speakers and honest-to-God boomboxes and hi-tech sound systems. The scents of flowers, cooking food and hot sand made quite a perfume.

 

          However, it was the ocean that caught Peter’s attention. The sights, sounds, and smells of the Fair were a little exciting – but the ocean nearly overwhelmed him. The shifting teal and white of the water, crashing on the sand. The roar of the waves as they came inexorably to shore. The smell of seawater being spread by the spray and wind.

 

          “It’s here every day of the week, twenty four hours a day,” said Mr Stark, coming up behind him. May was still haggling over the price of some vintage film poster she wanted to hang in their living room.

 

          Mr Stark was leaning on a brand new cane he had bought moments after they had entered the Fair. “How would you explore if I’m leaning on you all day?” he had said when he bought it, despite (or _because_  of) Peter’s insistence that he didn’t mind.

 

          Peter thought instead of what it would be like to be caught in the tide. To run right into the surf and keep going forward, while the waves wash away all traces of him on the beach. To feel the saltwater scour him with each rolling surge.

 

          There’s a reason so many religions used water in their ceremonies.

 

          Water cleansed. Water devoured. Water can erase everything eventually.

 

          If Peter stayed under the waves long enough, would it erase that night, too?  

 

          “What’s the matter?” said Mr Stark, frowning, “You look like you’ve never seen an ocean. You do know that New York is right on top of one, right? Big, blue, frigid? People call it the Atlanta or something?”

 

          He tried not to laugh. He really did. But in the end, Peter had to laugh.  

 

          “The water’s different here,” he said, not looking at Mr Stark. “More alive, you know? Less…dark,” Peter kept looking at the ocean, though he had to squint against the glare of the sunlight on the waves. “Besides, there’s like, what? Two months or something when you can actually swim in New York? Without ending up with hypothermia, I mean.”

 

          “Valid point. Besides, the pollution would probably mutate you.”

 

          Peter considered this. “I wonder if there’s like a difference, if you like get mutated by water from the East River or the Hudson.” He grinned as he looked at Mr Stark, and was glad that the man had a small smile on his face. “So which water would you rather swim in? East or Hudson?”

 

          Mr Stark thought about it, fingers twitching on his cane, before speaking. “Which one _doesn’t_  flow past Jersey?”

 

          “Come on!” Peter laughed, “Jersey’s not that bad! They get a bad rep, that’s all.”

 

          Mr Stark made a noncommittal noise. “I was more worried about the chemical refineries and sludge.”

 

          “Well, the living room will still be homey without it,” sighed May, coming over to them empty-handed, “It was way too pricey, anyway.”

 

          “What did you want to buy?” Peter, said hurriedly. He didn’t know why he felt like he had been doing something illicit. It was perfectly acceptable for him to discuss mutagenic river water with a man like Mr Stark.

 

          “There was a poster for _The Little Prince_ ,” May said, a wistful look on her face, “It really didn’t do well when it was released in ’74, but this movie house near our apartment screened it again in 1980. I wanted to see it, but Mama had grounded me for something or other. So I was about to sneak out of our apartment when your mom caught me going out the window.”

 

          Peter’s heart lurched. May rarely talked about his mother. Or her girlhood. Mr Stark was looking at him again, but he hardly noticed. He wanted to hear this.

 

          “She was such a snitch when she was eight,” May continued, “So in the end, I had to bring her along with me to the theatre. We loved it! We were both crying in the end, when the Prince gets bit by Bob Fosse. Then we spent the entire afternoon together, just going round the neighbourhood, window shopping, spotting cute boys. She even promised not to tell Mama about that one cigarette I had after the movie. Your grandmother had no clue why we were both so tired that night.”

 

          She turned away then, running a hand over her eyes. The back of it was damp when she lowered it. Peter reached out and touched her arm.

 

          “You’ve never told me about that,” he said, softly.

 

          And, just like that, May was smiling again. “Damn straight,” she said, mockingly stern. “You should never smoke. Or sneak out without telling your parent. No matter how dreamy you found Richard Kiley’s voice.”

 

          “Promise,” Peter whispered, “But only because I don’t know who Richard Kiley is”.

 

          She hugged him. For the first time in months, Peter actually hugged her back. He had forgotten how nice it felt. Peter felt sorry for all the times in the last few months May had embraced him only for him shrug out of her arms. He didn’t need to tell her what he was thinking, though. Somehow, she knew. She was family, after all. His only family, now.

 

          Mr Stark cleared his throat after a while, to politely remind them that he still existed.

 

          “Let me introduce you to a few people I know,” he offered, gesturing with his new cane, “Welcome you to the neighbourhood and all that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot of editing. And fact-checking. And math, especially when it came to May's age. The good news is that I've already finished writing chapters 3 and 4, and once my patient editor is done with those, they'll be posted sometime over the weekend and early next week.
> 
> Thanks for all the views and kudos!


	3. On the Beach; Soft Shadows

****

_November 1, 2017, 2:24 pm, post-mortem_

 

            Natasha Romanoff flicked on the lights of the interrogation room and checked if the microphones and recording systems were working. After a moment’s consideration, she turned on the air conditioning. No need to make the people in line outside uncomfortable. They weren’t suspects, merely additional sources of information.

 

            The autopsy had been done by the book. Strange had promised them a comprehensive report and analysis, written in _layman’s_ terms he promised, by the next day. The condescension, Natasha could overlook. But then the asshole had had tried to wriggle out of his promise to buy Nick and her lunch, should they still desired it afterwards.

 

            Strange, with some persuasion from Natasha, still bought them lunch though. Their discussion on the particulars of the autopsy didn’t leave them much time to eat – so she now had three bags of “leftovers” with her. She didn’t complain, given how the case was shaping up. They’d probably be the only real food she would consume in a while.

 

            Natasha sighed deeply and shrugged off her dark coat. She picked up a folder on the table that occupied the centre of the room and extracted from it a list of those who had attended the fundraiser. Natasha had already gone over the names a few hours before, and her annotations filled the page. The victim’s name was run through in red ink. People who may have important information had their names underlined. Persons of interests had a small red hourglass next to their names.

 

            Eyewitness accounts and testimonies still held powerful sway in court, despite the sudden faith people threw at forensic evidence. It was a cynical world, Natasha pondered, that trusted fingerprints and swabs rather than the word of another human being.

 

            And despite what people may think, both could lie straight to your face. As with all things, forensics had an inherent margin of error. Bite marks could be distorted, fingerprints could be misleading and even DNA evidence, something which juries nowadays seem to see as unimpeachable proof, could be downright wrong.

 

            It was better to have both: a person who can point to a murderer as well as the tiny splotch of blood to condemn him. Natasha Romanoff knew this better than most people. She had, after all, been on both sides of a trial.

 

            There came a light tapping from the one way glass behind her. Fury was back, and they were ready to begin.

 

            She sat down on one of two chairs that faced each other across the varnished surface of the table. Her fingers began to tap a beat on the table top. Sorting out the lies from the truth was something she vastly enjoyed. The weaving of a story from the words of others until they became a noose from which someone would hang. Metaphorically, of course.

 

            Knowing that the Fury could hear everything in the room, she called the first name.

 

            “Send in Wanda Maximoff please, Nick.”

 

 

_June 4, 2017, 10:33 am, ante-mortem_

 

            Steve Rogers was late. It had taken him five minutes of going ‘round the Fair parking lot to realize that it was full. He had had to park a quarter of a mile away and walk back to the Fair. It didn’t bother him much. The loaded gym bag and backpack were lighter than his kit during his army day. And he’d had lug those for much farther.

 

            He had taken a leisurely pace, stopping by occasionally to greet people he knew. Or passing joggers. He read somewhere that hearing affirmations can help people to do better. So a “Great pace, champ!” or “You can do it!” had become a habit for Steve to say – both to his trainees and random passers-by.

 

            So far, the day was off to a great start. Except that moment with Stark.

 

            Nearly thirty thousand people lived in Stanley Cove, so what were the odds of him running into that…that…that  _jackhole_ and the boy he was riding with?

 

            At the thought, Steve scowled. A woman passing by flinched at his expression and gave him a wide berth before Steve could school his expression to one of neutrality.

 

            Peter Parker; that was the boy’s name. Innocent-looking. Shy. New. Young. _Very_ young. The kid had no idea how much trouble Stark would get him into. Hopefully, Peter would stop by his booth, which Stark would avoid. Maybe he could ask Peter what exactly Stark had been doing with him and his aunt. Subtly, of course.

 

            It won’t be easy, though; Steve knew he could be intimidating. He never liked that. It came too close to being hated – and Steve had had enough of that.

 

            It was at the Fair entrance that he realized he didn’t have his phone. Which meant he had to go back to his truck and get it. Steve jogged back and retrieved it, and got anxious when he saw that there were four new text messages. He unlocked the phone and scrawled through them.

 

_Sam Wilson (personal): Steve, where u at?_

_Sam Wilson (personal): Nakia’s here already. She and Okoye going to start._

_Sam Wilson (personal): He’s not here. He’s not replying either._

 

            Sam’s last text was time-stamped two minutes ago. Steve already felt trepidation from it. But the last unread text made alarm bells blare in his head. It made him run as fast as he could to the Fair.

 

_Bucky: Steve help please cant breathe_

 

            Still carrying both bags, Steve outran all the joggers.

 

*******************

 

            Tony Stark had not thought about how much money he had in a long time. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t aware of his net worth, or his father’s before him. But until today, they had just been numbers to be trotted out and paraded in front of others, like show ponies. Or sports cars.

 

            It was probably because he hadn’t mingled (was that the term?) with people below a certain economic level in decades. When _had_ he run away from home, ’90? ‘91? In any case, he almost never intentionally thought about that time in his life, now.

 

            Going around the Fair with Peter and May made him painfully aware of the vast difference between them in financial status. While Tony had bought the cane (price tag: $450) on a whim, he watched Peter and May agonize for a full minute whether or not they could afford to buy a forty dollar set of glassware.

 

            Ten minutes into going around the stalls, Tony had already lost count of how many times May or Peter would become interested at something for sale, only to shrug and walk away after seeing the price tag. Just how narrow a margin where they living on? It made him conscious of just how easy life was for him.

 

            But why did it make him feel bad? It’s wasn’t like he was actively depriving them or anything. He couldn’t help it that he had money. And he certainly didn’t think that made him better than them.

 

            Didn’t he?

 

            Distantly, Tony knew that the two former New Yorkers were much better off than a lot of other people. They could afford a car and, according to May, were renting a cosy house near Stanley Cove Technical High School. There were families out there who made do with less. There were people who lived in the streets and in storm drains.

 

            Why should he feel bad for these two and not, say, the homeless of Los Angeles?

 

            Then he caught the teenager’s eyes for just a moment, and he had an answer.

 

            Was it because of how the heat and exertion was slowly giving Peter’s cheeks a slight rosy glow? Or how the summer sunlight would sometimes make his eyes seem like amber? Or the way the kid sometimes looked at him from the corner of his eyes and wet his lips?

 

            Despite the fact that Tony had stopped all intentional efforts at flirting, because Peter was _seventeen_ , he couldn’t help but respond to the boy. There was something there, behind those hot whiskey eyes. An intelligence that could match Tony’s, for one, but also an openness that Tony both envied and desired. Perhaps it was because he didn’t think he could allow himself to be that vulnerable.

 

            This was starting to give Tony a headache. He needed to distract them and himself. Plus, introduce them to some people, like he had promised.

 

            “Hey,” he announced, “let’s go down to the beach. One of my pals is set up down there.”

 

            “Well, thank God I’m wearing sandals,” May said, cheerily.

 

            “I’m wearing sneakers,” Peter mumbled, indicating the ratty things covering his feet.

 

            “No problem,” Tony said, waving arm, “Take them off, tie the laces together and hang ‘em around your neck.”

            

            “What about you, Mr Stark?” Peter indicated that, like him, Tony was wearing sneakers. Although, of course, his were probably ten times more expensive than Peter’s.

 

            “You want me to help you get them off?”

 

            It was a sincere and reasonable suggestion. Tony couldn’t do it, after all, not without some pain from his ankle. Kid was only trying to help, right? Why not let him do it?

 

            But the image of Peter kneeling in front of him, maybe even looking up through his lashes, those whiskey eyes locking with Tony’s as he unbuttoned…

 

 _Seventeen_ , a traitorous (sane, law-abiding) portion of Tony’s brain reminded him.

 

            “No need kid,” Tony replied, masterfully hiding the fact that his throat had gone dry, “They’re probably ruined already. Plus I have other pairs. You, on the other hand-”

 

 _Don’t_ , Tony wanted to say, but he bit it back at the last second.

 

            “-should start taking your shoes off,” Tony finished smoothly.

 

            Peter did as he was told, stuffing his socks in his pockets when he’d removed his shoes. He looked up at Tony afterwards, blushing as if he’d stripped down to his underwear. Tony thought he looked like, well, the _kid_ he was, with his sneakers dangling around his neck, loose shirt starting to stick to his back from perspiration.

 

            Then why did Tony find him a just a little more attractive? 

 

            “Problem solved,” Tony declared, turning away. “Let’s go.”

 

            The beach was not too crowded, the real throngs would come next month, with a few stalls right there on the sand. He led them to one with quite a number of people surrounding it. The sign above it was simple. It read: SURFING LESSONS ON THE CHEAP.

 

            Tony, however, knew that the crowd of both men and women were not there for affordable instructions. If these people were thinking of riding anything, it was the instructor.

 

            “Alright,” came Thor Odinson’s booming voice, “now we’ve only got a few boards, so who wants to join me for a few pointers?” There was an immediate clamouring from the assembled horny, would-be surfers.

 

            Thor towered over nearly everyone. As Tony expected, the man was only wearing surfing shorts, leaving his powerful upper half bare. Well, if Tony had muscles like some Nordic god, he’d show off, too. His long, blonde hair was pulled back into a tail, except for some loose strands that framed his ruggedly handsome face.

 

            As the crowd shoved and elbowed each other for the five surfboards that were leaning against the front of the stall, Tony led May and Peter around them to Thor’s side.

 

            “Hey, Bodhi,” Tony shouted over the din of the squabbling, “can we talk?”

 

            “Tony!” He saw Peter flinch at the loudness of Thor’s shout. Everything about Thor was loud; even the shorts he was wearing was a bright electric blue with yellow highlights. Then he was being engulfed by the giant’s arms and getting a layer of sweat and sunscreen on his blazer. After a few seconds, he was mercifully let go.

 

            “Not exactly dressed for the beach, are you?” Thor laughed, crossing his massive arms across his equally massive chest. The movement caused a second round of fighting over the surfboards.

 

            Tony definitely did not keep an eye on Peter’s reaction to Thor’s body behind his sunglasses. He most definitely _did not_ notice the way Peter slyly tracked his eyes down the surfer’s tanned torso. Because if he didn’t notice, then there hadn’t been a spike of what was definitely not jealousy.

 

            Besides, Tony thought, Thor was straight. And in a relationship. And not into almost-but-definitely-not-legal boys.

 

            “You’re not exactly dressed, are you?” Tony retorted, indicating Thor’s lack of clothing.

 

            “What brings you down to the water, Tony? I have a lesson to get started.” Thor indicated the five bedraggled winners, each one clutching his or her surfboard with determination.

 

            “Was just going to introduce some new friends of mine,” Tony said easily, “Got time for that?”

 

            “Of course! Always glad to meet new folks.” Thor turned to the stall and yelled “Val! Valerie! Need a little help here!”

 

            An empty beer bottle sailed over the stall and thumped into the sand by Thor’s feet. Moments later, a beautiful, if slightly dour-looking, woman with caramel skin and dark hair in a sloppy braid emerged from behind it. She was dressed in a light blue rash guard over a gray swimsuit. Her small frame was smoothly muscled, and Tony suspected she was far stronger than she looked. One hand was clutched around a mostly full bottle of beer.

 

            Val vaulted over the stall front and sauntered, if a little unsteadily, over to them. “Do you have to fucking yell all the time?” she grumbled before taking a long swig.

 

            “Sorry about that, but can you take over the lesson? Tony wants a word with me.”

 

            Val glared at Tony, apparently not even taking note of May and Peter, who had edged away at her approach. She grunted to say yes, and turned instead to the five, now slightly disappointed, surfers. “Alright you stupid lumps,” Val yelled, “Before we go into the water, we’re gonna go through a few pointer right here on the beach.”

 

            “Love you!” Thor called to her as she led her pupils a little way away. “Come this way, its burning out there.” He led them behind the stall, which was sheltered under a tarp. There was small cooler, and a long, foldable beach chair, as well as a surfboard painted metallic grey with white lightning bolts, stuck to the sand.

 

            “Sorry about that. Val’s just a bit grumpy,” Thor grinned at them, when they were situated. Peter and May were sharing the beach chair, while Tony and Thor sat on stall front. “I just hope she left us something to drink.” He reached down and extracted four bottles from the cooler.

 

            Tony took one gratefully, opening it on the edge of the stall front. Thor opened the remaining three himself, the bottle caps offering no resistance when he twisted, and offered them. May took one gladly, and sipped a little.

 

            “I can’t drink yet,” Peter explained when Thor turned to him with a bottle.

 

            “Oh, right,” Tony said, remembering the point of this, “Thor, that’s Peter Parker, and the lovely woman is May, his aunt. They just moved here from New York.”

 

            “Pleasure to meet you!” Thor cried. Unlike surfing, Thor had not mastered volume control. “Come here for some real sun?”

 

            “The schools, actually,” May explained. Thor nodded and began to ask May the usual introductory questions: What did she do for work? How was she finding California so far? How was she dealing with the heat?

 

            Tony congratulated himself for making the right choice to introduce them to Thor first. The guy was friends with practically everyone. Thor was uncomplicated, which made him easy to get along with. He had moved to Stanley Cove nearly four years back, buying a much-coveted house near the beach and causing a stir among the residents’ loins.

 

            There was an air of mystery around the man. No one knew where he got his money from, and he certainly didn’t make enough from his surfing lessons to live as he did. Sometimes Tony wondered if Thor secretly _was_ leading a gang of bank-robbing surfers up and down the coast.

 

            No one also knew where he came from, and his accent proved indecipherable, sometimes sounding British, or Australian, before getting a little Norwegian.

 

            A year ago, he went off to San Diego for a week and came back with Val, who had lived with him ever since. And no one knew how they met, or where _she_ came from.

 

            Tony had, of course, made it his business to answer those questions. And in four years of friendship, he had gotten nothing. He had tried asking Val on the off chance Thor had revealed anything to her, but either she didn’t know or didn’t care to know. One of the few things Tony knew about Thor was that he was the second of three children and estranged from his family. Oh, and he was thirty.

 

            And that’s it. It frustrated Tony to no end, but he had been reminded more than once by both Thor and other people that it really wasn’t any of his business.

 

            “Is that your surfboard? Mr…Thor?”

 

            Tony felt bad that he had forgotten Peter was there. But the boy had been quiet while May and Thor were chatting. The kid had gotten up and was inspecting the board, with its lightning bolts.

            

            “No, don’t call me that,” Thor groaned, “My name is already awkward enough. And yes, that is my board, Mjolnir.”

 

            “Like Thor’s hammer?” said Peter, crouching down to examine some runes painted on the tail of the board.

 

            “Exactly! You study Norse myth?”

 

            Peter shrugged. “My uncle loved reading them to me when I was a kid,” he said, and froze.

 

            He was facing away from Tony, but he saw the boy’s frame suddenly lock, and his hands suddenly clamped into fists. Even his toes clenched, digging furrows into the sand. It was unnatural, how still he had become. Petrified.

 

            May looked at Peter, eyes worried, maybe even alarmed. “Sweetie, you okay?”

 

            Peter didn’t respond immediately, but then he stood up, and murmured “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” What colour he had gained from their walking about had drained; his face was ashen. May looked as if she wanted to say something, but she cast a wary look at Tony and Thor and simply nodded.

 

            “We gotta go.” What else was Tony supposed to say? He wasn’t going to stew in silence, not with the Fair still going on. And he had a slight premonition that there would be words between Peter and his aunt later. Of what nature though?

 

            “Thanks for the drink, buddy,” he said, clapping Thor in the back. The surfer simply nodded and smiled, bidding Peter and his aunt good day and telling them that he was at the beach most days of the week, should they ever want a surfing lesson. He even took another of May’s business cards.

 

            When they reached paved ground again, Tony looked back at the stall while Peter put on his shoes again. Thor was looking at them, head slightly tilted. Val was beside him, a fresh bottle in her hand. Tony couldn’t see their faces at that distance but they seemed to be frowning at Peter…or at Tony himself.

 

*******************

 

            “Who were they?” Val’s voice was not slurring, Thor told himself. She could not possibly be _that_ sauced already. Not before noon. She was probably still hung over. Yeah, that’s it. Because she had two tumblers of vodka last night to help her relax.

 

            “May and her nephew, Peter. Just moved here from the East Coast.” Thor explained, “They seem nice.”

 

            Val snorted and took a swallow of beer. “Which one is Tony is trying to fuck? The aunt or the nephew?”

 

            Thor was about laugh it dawned on him that she hadn’t been joking.

 

            “Babe, are you serious?” he said, rounding on her. “What makes you think Tony’s, you know, _gunning_ for one of them?”

 

            The expression on Val’s face was one of exasperation. “When was the last time Tony escorted someone around to ‘introduce’ them?” she said, as she lay down on the beach chair.

 

            Thor thought about it and remembered the last time this had happened. He looked up again towards the Fair proper, but Tony and his two new “friends” were already lost in the crowd.

 

            “Shit,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “Well, at least he’s not married anymore.” There was also the fact that Peter wasn't old enough to drink yet. But Tony would never do anything with a minor.

 

            Val was snoring faintly, fast asleep, when he turned around again. Thor leaned down and tried to gently pry the half empty bottle of beer from her fingers. They tightened around the neck of the bottle when he did.

            

            He opened the cooler instead, and was not shocked to note that, of the twelve bottles that they had brought down to the beach, Val had drunk eight. Thor no longer had it in him to be disappointed.

 

            He sat down on the sand next to her and watched the waves.

 

*******************

_June 4, 2017, 10:39 am, ante-mortem_

 

             Steve was beginning to panic. He had woven through the crowd, trying as much as he could not too push or shove anyone. He had called Bucky, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Either he couldn’t or he wouldn’t. So Steve had called Sam, who promised to keep a lookout from the Triskelion Fitness booth.

 

            It had been a mistake to ask Bucky to come to the Fair all on his own. Too many people, too many things to keep an eye on.

 

            Steve had already searched everywhere he could think of, quiet places behind stalls and between food trucks. He berated himself the whole time. He should have driven Bucky, picked him up from the transitional house and personally escorted him around.

 

            He should have been there for Bucky.

 

            He realized that he was becoming haphazard with his searching. Steve stopped and considered where Bucky might go to recover. Somewhere quiet that could afford him some privacy. Out of the way, too.

 

            He should have thought of it first. Steve shouldered his bags, ignoring the way the straps were beginning to bite into him, and made his way to a secluded public restroom, a couple hundred feet or so from the Fair proper.

            

            The small, concrete building was under the shade of some trees and a high hedge hid it to the point that no one but those who’d already been there to know exactly where it was. It was still meticulously maintained, though. This was still, after all, Stanley Cove.

 

            Steve entered and immediately saw the handicapped stall was the only one closed. The fluorescent lighting had been turned off, and the restroom was only partially lit by sunlight.

 

            He could hear someone’s rapid breathing from the doorway.

 

            “Bucky?” Steve pitched his voice low, barely louder than a whisper.

 

            There were sounds of movement from within the stall and the rasp of the bolt being pulled. The breathing had slowed down, but only by a fraction.

 

            Steve set his bags down on the sink and, looking around to make sure no one was rushing to use the bathroom, locked the main door. The bathroom descended into dimness, the light filtering weakly through a narrow window and from under the door.

 

            He knocked lightly on the thin, stall door. “Bucky? I’m coming in.” He waited a moment and pushed it open.

 

            Bucky Barnes was crouched in one corner of the stall, incongruous given his height and physical stature. He was wearing some of the clothes Steve and Sam had bought for him when he first came to Stanley Cove a month back: A green button-up shirt, khaki shorts and running shoes. He had let his black hair grow a little long since coming back from the Middle East, and he hadn’t bothered to style back. His right arm, the only one he had now, was wrapped around his knees. Bucky looked up at Steve with his dark eyes, wide with nervousness, but no longer terror.

  

            “Hey, buddy,” Steve said, smiling as he sat down on the tiled floor, “It’s gonna be okay. I’m right here.”

 

            Steve closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the stall, listening to Bucky’s breathing slow down until it got normal.

 

            “I’m sorry, Steve. I couldn’t do it.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. And when Steve opened his eyes, he saw that the other man’s eyes were shining in the dim light.

 

            “What happened?” Steve moved a little closer, sliding on the floor. He did it just so he could, if he wanted to, touch Bucky. But not yet.

 

            “It was just…just the heat, the sun, all the people…it was too much like it was over there,” Bucky said, “I kept thinking that anyone of them could be hiding something, like a knife or a gun. And then just…I lost it, man. I fucking ran all the way here. I couldn’t breathe, and I texted you.”

 

            Bucky waved at the open the lid of the toilet. “I tried to answer your call, but my hands were shaking so bad, I dropped your phone in and I tried catching it with my other hand…and it fell in.”

 

            He shook his head savagely. “It’s stupid. God, I’m a fucking idiot.”

 

            “No, you’re not.” Steve didn’t mean for his voice to become as stern as it did. So he softened his tone when he continued. “It’s just a symptom, okay? You had a panic attack, but you’re gonna get better. It’s going to take some time and effort. Going out there _might_ help a little, I’m not gonna lie, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine, too.”

 

            Steve extended a hand, slowly, and gripped Bucky’s forearm. He took it as a good sign that the man didn’t flinch away from the contact.

 

            “I can stay right here until you’re fine.”

 

            And then something happened that Steve had not been expecting: Bucky took his hand and laced their fingers together.

 

            They didn’t say anything. There was no need. It just felt right.

 

            In the soft shadows, they held hands and were content.

 

            “I’m sorry I dropped your phone in the toilet,” Bucky said, after a few minutes.

 

            Steve laughed. “First thing, it was a gift to you, so it was _your_ phone you dropped in the toilet. Second, it’s no big deal. The folks at Triskelion will chip in for a new one, I’m sure.” He felt Bucky squeeze his fingers. A silent thanks, perhaps?

 

            “How are you doing at the house?”

 

            Bucky sighed. “I don’t like it there. I feel alone all the time. It’s either too quiet when there’s no one around or too noisy when they all show up. I don’t feel like talking to them, and they don’t like me either. I make them uncomfortable,” he said, nodding towards the stump of his left arm. The sleeve of the shirt had been folded and pinned in place over it, but it was never going to be unnoticed.

 

            “It’s-”

 

            “‘-going to get better’,” Bucky finished for him. “I know that, Steve. I _know_ it’s going to get better, eventually.”

 

            “What can I do to make you _believe_ it?”

 

            Bucky thought about it. “Help me up. Let’s see if I can make it through today.”

 

            Steve smiled and stood up, hauling Bucky to his feet with a heave of his arm. After Steve loaded both bags on his free arm, they walked to the door. He was about to unlace their fingers when he caught the expression on the other man’s face.

 

            Bucky was looking at Steve’s hand like it was a lifeline, keeping him from drifting too far from shore.

 

            “Ready?”

 

            “I think so.” A faint undercurrent of panic had woven through Bucky’s voice again.

 

            Steve leaned forward, pressing their entwined hands to his chest. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I won’t let go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And welcome Thor, Valkyrie and Bucky! I know that Valkyrie's real name is Brunhilde, but Valerie's was a much easier name. Plus, Val can be shorthand for both.
> 
> As usual, your comments and kudos are very much appreciated! Chapter four will be uploaded Monday at the earliest.


	4. Art and Science; On the Radar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised to update by Monday and (checks calendar) WHOOMP its Thursday. Sorry guys! Its just that I developed a system to ensure I write stuff: before I post a revised chapter, I must also pass the next chapter to my editor. Sorry for the wait guys! Hope this and the next chapter makes up for it!
> 
> As usual, comments and kudos = love.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

 

_November 1, 2017, 2:25 pm, post-mortem_

 

          “Do you guys, like, pick fluorescent lighting on purpose? It’s very unflattering to my skin tone.”

 

          Wanda Maximoff had somehow managed to lounge on the steel chair of the interrogation room. She was idly playing with her long, red hair, which was a shade lighter than Natasha’s. Her other hand was scrolling through her phone. Probably checking her Instagram.

 

          Insouciance personified. At least, that’s how Wanda wanted to be seen.

          

          Natasha didn’t answer the question and took her time reviewing some of the facts she had noted down about Wanda.

 

_Moved to Stanley Cove three years ago to start bed and breakfast_

 

          Which, Natasha knew, was not happening anytime soon. Apparently, she was still saving up to buy the perfect place.

 

_27 years old. Has twin brother. Occasionally visits her_

 

          Pietro; that was the pest’s name. Every time he was in town, he’d cause a headache for everyone involved. He had two DUIs from Stanley Cove PD as well as an arrest for public nudity, all from his last Thanksgiving visit. And then he ploughed his car through Clint’s new fence. Clint had not been remotely amused, Natasha remembered.

 

_Married to Vision. Kept her name. Insists on being called Miss._

 

          What kind of a name was ‘Vision’? _Hipsters_. No kids though. Probably focusing on their careers, whatever that was for Wanda. Vision was a struggling artist and part-time programmer at Stark Technologies.

 

_Has 260k followers on Instagram_

 

          Oh yes, that was her job. Instagram fashionista and social media influencer.

 

          Natasha tried not to roll her eyes. Amazing what opportunities a load of free time and no responsibilities can give.

 

          “Am I bothering you?” Wanda asked, impatiently, “I can come back, you know.”

 

          “No need,” Natasha replied, not even looking up from the file, “Just, hang on a moment.”

 

          Wanda let out an irritated huff. “It’s not like I know anything about the murder.” She straightened up in her chair. “Are we actually, like, using the word _murder_ now?”

 

          “Well, yes,” Natasha said as she finally looked up and put the file to the side, except for a print-out of a photo from Wanda’s Instagram. “And actually, you may have information that could help us.”

 

          Wanda was suddenly all ears. Natasha knew she couldn’t resist being involved in something as juicy as the first murder in Stanley Cove in over a decade.

 

          “How so?”

 

          “Other guests have indicated that you were taking pictures and videos of the fundraiser last night pretty much nonstop and they might prove invaluable in tracking the movements of certain people we’re looking into.”

 

          Wanda’s eyes widened. “You mean I could have taken a picture of the murderer?” Natasha knew at once what Wanda was thinking: _I could get more followers!_ It would make quite the departure from the usual fare on her account: pretty dress, pretty but overpriced meal, pretty dress, nails, _murderer_.

 

          “Naturally, we only want copies of your pictures and videos. We can’t tell you anything about the case or which pictures would be used.” Natasha shrugged. “Procedure and all that.”

 

          “Oh.” Wanda’s elation deflated slightly. “Don’t you need like a warrant or a court order for that?”

 

          “Only if you don’t want to share them.”

 

          Wanda bit her lip and looked at her phone with new interest. Clearly she was weighing the pros and cons of that arrangement. “I’ll think about it,” was her eventual reply. “Is that all? Can I go now?” she added, making as if to stand.

 

          “No. There’s actually something else,” Natasha said, coldly. She slid the photograph across the table. “Can you explain why you took this photograph and captioned it that way?”

 

          Wanda smiled, actually _smiled_ , when she saw the picture. “Why are you asking? Is it, like, relevant to the case?”

 

          “Answer the question, please, Miss Maximoff.” Natasha was all business now. While not directly related to the case, the photograph was undoubtedly a starting point in the events. And maybe a hint to something else.

 

          Wanda ran a nail, painted pale pink and decorated with tiny flowers, across the glossy surface of the photo.

 

          “You have to admit, it was a great shot.”

 

*******************

 

_June 4, 2017, 11:16 am, ante-mortem_

 

         

          Fish tacos were surprisingly good, Peter found out. Even though there had been fish tacos in New York, _everything_ was available in New York, he had never eaten one before. He tried to say so, but had forgotten that he had a mouthful of food and wound up in a coughing fit.

 

          “How many times do I have to tell you not talk with your mouth full?” May sighed, not looking up from her own plate. She did hand him a paper towel to wipe his mouth with, though.

 

          Mr Stark passed him a bottle of soda to clear his throat. “Easy there, kid,” he said, smiling faintly, “Death by fish taco is usually because it’s trying to come out the other way.”

 

          They were seated in front of a food truck that served…a little bit of everything, actually. The menu was a confusing lesson in world cuisine. Peter’s stomach had rumbled a couple of minutes after they had gone up from the beach and Mr Stark had declared they should have something to eat. And had paid for their meal, too.

 

          “Where we going to go next, Mr Stark?” Peter said, after he had taken a drink of soda. He tried not to think about the way their fingers had brushed when he had taken the soda. Because, seriously, that’s just _so_ immature. Peter in no way had any thoughts about Mr Stark’s fingers. No inappropriate thoughts at all.

 

          “How ‘bout something artsy?”

 

 

          The “booth” they visited next _was_ artsy. It was actually a large cloth pavilion, with faux gold silk hangings decorated with African ethnic patterns. And expensive looking, which was appropriate, given that the sign outside said ‘Golden City Gallery’. There were reproductions of sculptures and masks in glass cases amid elaborately woven tapestries and carpets, each one from the designs of a different Sub-Saharan people. The paintings and prints that stood on easels were of similar theme: Africa, its culture, wildlife, and breath-taking vistas.

 

          There was also an enclosed space to the side. From the faint illumination and sounds coming inside it, Peter guessed that there was a lecture or video presentation going on inside. Mr Stark motioned them to follow him and they went around the exhibited art works. There were some people with them but, compared to the rest of the crowded Fair, they were practically alone.

 

          Peter drifted away from May and Mr Stark, wandering among bold, geometric prints. He focused on one, a complex shape formed of tan, gold and black. There was something familiar about the way the fractals and lattices interwove. A feeling of tense power and predation. It took him a few minutes to realize what the print represented.

 

          “It’s a lion,” Peter breathed, marveling at how the artist had managed to convey the tense strength and power of the animal in lines and curls.

 

          “Whatever you say, kid,” Mr Stark said, coming up behind him, “Is it one of those Magic Eye things?” Peter flinched in surprise, but managed to stay still and not embarrass himself. Even when Mr Stark leaned forward so that his head was nearly resting on Peter’s shoulder, his breath warming Peter’s ear.

 

          After a few seconds, Mr Stark straightened up and pointed at the print with his cane. “I see…an artist who cannot draw and is hungry for recognition.” He wiggled the cane, following some of the spiral shapes. “And hungry for pasta.”

 

          “A middle-aged man, who’s bitter, sarcastic and has a cane,” came a teasing female voice, “I thought _House_ ended five years ago?”

 

          “Why does everyone compare me to bitter British asshats?” Mr Stark said, exasperated. But he was grinning when turned to face the black woman who had approached them.

 

          The woman’s face had a permanently amused expression and mischief in her bright eyes. She was slender, a fact accentuated by the simple white dress she wore. Beaded bracelets of dark stones clung to one of her forearms. Her hair was braided and coiled into two buns over her ears.

 

          “ _Hugh Laurie_ is British,” the woman continued, embracing Mr Stark briefly, “Dr House is as American as you are.” She spotted Peter and smiled. Her face really was made for it. Peter found himself returning the smile. “Who is this?” she asked Mr Stark.

 

          “Peter, meet Shuri, the only person I know who is slightly smarter than me. Shuri, this is Peter Parker. He’s new here.”

 

          Shuri went over to him and took both his hands in her own. “Welcome to Stanley Cove,” she said, kissing both his cheeks before stepping back. Peter felt himself flushing at the contact.

 

          “Peter’s starting eleventh grade at the Technical this August,” Mr Stark said. The reminder of his age grated on Peter’s nerves. But Shuri let out a delighted sound.

 

          “I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot,” she said, “I teach the AP science classes there.”

 

          “Which one?” Peter asked, curious about what her specialty was, “Engineering? Chemistry? Physics?”

 

          Shuri waved a hand dismissively. “A little of everything. Having four PhDs makes me invaluable to the school.”

 

          “Wow, that’s awesome!” The praise slipped out before he could process it. But it _really_ was awesome. Shuri did not look like she was past twenty-five. 

 

          “It is, isn’t it?” she said, beaming at Peter. “Between you calling me ‘awesome’ and Tony admitting that I’m smarter than him-”

 

          “I said ‘slightly smarter’,” Mr Stark muttered, though good-naturedly.

 

          “-I think I’ve had my ego boost for the day,” Shuri finished.

 

          May came over, then, and Mr Stark introduced her. May was pleased to meet one of Peter’s future teachers and began asking questions about the school’s curriculum. Shuri was more than happy to answer them, even going in to details about the opportunities open to graduates. He could see that his aunt was impressed and comforted by Shuri’s answers.

 

          Moving to Stanley Cove had not been cheap, and, though May tried to hide it from him, the house they were renting near the high school was going to cost a lot. One of her primary motivations to moving across the country had been the reputation of Stanley Cove Technical as a leading centre for scientific education. His education and well-being had been her priority, after all. As for the other reasons…

 

          “Where’s your brother?” Mr Stark asked Shuri when May’s questions had all been answered.

          

          “He’s giving a lecture on Bororo formalized flirtation dances,” Shuri said, pointing at the enclosed space, “You know how T’Challa gets when he’s lecturing. He hates being disturbed.”

 

          “Some other time, then. Are you staging a new exhibit anytime soon?”

 

          Shuri rolled her eyes. “He’s been a pain in the ass lately, driving himself nuts about the latest one. It’s a comparison and contrast of the textile art of the Yoruba and Soninke.”

 

          “That’s interesting,” May said, “When is it?” Peter didn’t think that May owned anything fancy enough for something like an exhibit opening, but he guessed that she was simply trying to make conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time May had dressed up fancy for an occasion. Unless you counted the funeral.

 

          That had been the first time Peter could remember wearing a tuxedo.

 

          Peter shied away from the memory and focused instead on the sound of Shuri’s voice.

 

          “The opening is on July 15,” said Shuri, “You and Peter can attend, if you like.” She turned to Mr Stark. “As for you, should we just expect another check to support the cultural arts or will you be there to hand it to T’Challa in person?”

          

          “I’ll think about it,” Mr Stark said, before checking his phone, “Sorry, we’ve got to get walking, Shuri.”

 

          Shuri said her good-byes, promising Peter that she’d keep an eye out for him in August, and they walked out of the pavilion. Mr Stark was hurrying, despite the limp. He moved quickly, using his cane and his shoulders to clear a path through the other fair-goers. Peter and May hurried to catch up.

 

          “Where are we going now, Mr Stark?”

 

          “My company’s gazebo,” the older man growled, “I forgot I was going to give a speech and now my…my CEO is texting me to get my ass over there.” The way Mr Stark said “CEO” made Peter look at the man closely. Mr Stark was angry, obviously, but why was he nervous?

 

          Right, Mr Stark owned a tech company of some sort. Peter wondered if he could apply there for the summer, maybe a part-time job. Now there was an idea.

 

          “Oh my God, Tony! Sweet cane!”

 

          A red-headed woman came out of nowhere, blocking Mr Stark with her outstretched arms. She was probably in her late twenties, dressed in an overlarge, white button-up shirt that was knotted at the front to expose her navel, and jean shorts. A large sunhat and enormous shades hid most of her face. A cardboard tube was slung on one shoulder from a string.

 

          Peter nearly ran into her hand, which was holding a smartphone. Behind her, he saw May had not noticed that he and Mr Stark were being temporarily waylaid and had gone on ahead. In seconds, she was gone from his sight.

 

          “Hey Wanda, now’s not really-”

 

          “Have you seen T’Challa? I have some more of Vis’ art that I think he would love for his gallery.” Peter was mildly impressed by this Wanda-person. He thought that anyone who was so full of themself that they didn’t notice Mr Stark was gritting his teeth in impatient anger deserved some form of recognition. Maybe a medal given posthumously.

 

          “You really should try to go easy on Vis over there at Stark Tech,” Wanda continued, “The stress vibes, like, interferes with his artistic insight, and he’s an artist so that’s really super important for him. His work is still inspired, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not inspired _enough,_ is what I’m saying.He’s a tortured soul, you know -”

 

          “I’d be happy to, how’d you put it? Ah, ‘go easy’ on Vision,” Mr Stark snapped, investing so much scorn in his words that Wanda stopped her monologue. “Except that I think that lining up for unemployment checks might, like, _super_ bum his artistic chi, _you know_?”

 

          Peter shuffled his feet, looking away. He didn’t think Mr Stark had to be that cruel, even if Wanda had not been listening.

 

          “Well _sorry_ ,” Wanda hissed, moving out of the way.

 

          Mr Stark muttered something under his breath which, thankfully, neither Peter nor Wanda heard. He hurried along, sweat popping on his brow. The blazer was probably burning him up, as well as having to use the cane.

 

          “I’m sorry about that, but I think he’s late for something,” Peter explained to Wanda, who was typing something angrily into her phone, red nails clicking on the screen.

 

          “Who the fuck even are you?” Wanda said absentmindedly, quite possibly not looking up from her typing. Peter couldn’t tell because of the enormous sunglasses.

 

          “Kid, let’s go!”

 

          At Mr Stark’s shout, Peter ran to catch up. “I’m Peter Parker, nice to meet you!” he yelled at Wanda, who had her removed her sunglasses. She was looking at him with an interest that slightly discomfited him before she began to walk away. He half-turned to wave good-bye to Wanda and promptly tripped over a passer-by’s foot.

 

          It wasn’t such a bad fall, Peter had managed to twist so that instead of falling forward, he ended up on his ass. It still hurt, but probably a lot less than if he had smacked his knees on the pavement.

 

          “Need any help?” Mr Stark’s voice wasn’t harsh, at least. He stood over Peter, one hand outstretched. The idea that Peter was like a child in a playground who needed an adult to help him get up irritated him.

 

          “I’m good, thanks,” Peter mumbled, and to prove it, he jumped to his feet.

 

          “You sure? You don’t have an ouchie that needs attention?”

 

          “I’m fine, Mr Stark. See?” Peter said, and did a little spin to show that he had no injuries on his posterior. Although it would have been an interesting spot for Mr Stark to pay attention to.

 

 _Yeah, like that would ever happen_ , Peter thought, smiling ruefully.

 

          “Hang on, kid. You have some sand on your perky ass.” And that was all the warning Peter had before Mr Stark reached down and brushed at the aforementioned body part. Peter held on to the smile on his face. He didn’t know what to process first: the fact that Mr Stark had called his ass “perky” or the fact that _he was actually touching Peter’s perky ass_.

 

          Did he imagine that Mr Stark’s hand might have lingered for a second?

 

          “There, you’re all good,” Mr Stark declared before rushing off again. He was sure the man had not noticed how Peter had turned nearly beet red.

 

*******************

 

          Wanda Maximoff had been curious about the awkward, pale teenager that Tony was dragging along. Well, mostly she had been angry at Tony. The guy thought he could treat people like doormats just because he was rich. She didn’t know why Vision defended the man when he was sometimes forced to work hours way longer than a part-timer should. No wonder Vision’s artistic abilities were suffering, working for an asshole like Tony Stark.

 

 _But the boy, Peter, how did he fit into Tony’s life?_ Wanda thought, slowly walking away from where Tony had been so rude to her.The man used people. In the few years that Wanda had known and heard about him, there had only been four people she was certain Tony had actually given a shit about. And now two of those hated his guts.

 

          She was going to get to the bottom of this. She turned to look back, hoping to catch a glance of the boy one more time, just so she could remember his face. He really wasn’t all that remarkable, come to think of it. Just your average white teenaged boy. Good hair though, if styled properly.

 

          And that’s when she saw Tony grope the kid, touching the boy’s ass. And the kid was actually smiling at the touch.

 

          So Stark was into jailbait. And the jailbait was into _him_.

 

          Wanda wasted no time. She brought up her phone and, with a skill born from practice, took several photos of the two.

 

          Smirking to herself, she hurried away to get Vis’ new work to T’Challa, another man who thought so highly of himself.

 

          Wanda was picking which of the shots she would post and deciding what to caption it, even as she sped away.

 

          Something by Nabokov, perhaps?

 

*******************

 

          The stupid rolled ankle and the stupid cane were slowing Tony down. He had not counted on rushing about today and the stupid blazer was steam-broiling him. And it didn’t help that there were hundreds of stupid people between him and the Stark Technologies gazebo.

          

          At least when he and Peter had regrouped with May, the woman had lent him a clean handkerchief to wipe his brow. He looked pretty far from even mildly presentable, but what was he going to do? Peter had assured him though that he looked good. Because of course Peter would say something like that.

 

          “Do you have any, like, summer internships, Mr Stark?”

 

          Speaking of Peter, the kid was asking a lot of questions about Stark Technologies. Questions like _“You hire part-timers, right?”_ and _“So what kind of hours do paid interns get?”_

 

          Subtlety was not one of Peter Parker’s strong points. He was basically yelling _“Hire Me Please”_.

 

          If only Tony could convince himself that Peter was only asking because of money.

 

          “Look, kid, I’d love to answer all your questions,” Tony panted, “But I’m kinda concentrating on my breathing.”

 

          “Oh, right, sorry. It just sounds really cool, that’s all.”

 

          “No problem, kid. But don’t worry all that info is available at the gazebo.”

 

          They were nearly there when Tony got another text. He had to stop to fish his phone from his pocket. And also to take a breather. May excused herself to buy all of them bottled water. God bless the woman for being concerned over a man who was still on the fence about putting the moves on her nephew.

 

          Peter was also sweating, and wiped at his forehead. He could have used his sleeve. Or asked for a handkerchief. Or the back of his hand. But _no,_ the kid had to use the hem of his shirt, exposing his lean stomach. 

 

          Tony quickly looked at his phone before he could see more of Peter’s body.

 

_Pepper (Official Stuff Only): Tony do not bring that boy here I swear to god._

      How did Pepper know about Peter? And why the hostility?

 

          “Hey, Peter,” he said, tone apologetic, “Now’s maybe not such a good time. There’s this whole thing going down over there and I really don’t want to drag you and May into it.”

 

          “Oh. Uhm, okay.” Peter sounded doubtful, but if Pepper didn’t want him at the gazebo, there was probably a reason. Maybe related to exactly _how_ she had known about Peter.

          

          Tony didn’t look at Peter. From the kid’s voice, Tony knew that there would be a look of perplexed hurt on the boy’s face. And if he saw that, he might cave and bring Peter along with him to the gazebo, whatever Pepper thought.

 

          “I’ll call you, alright, kid?” That was the best he could promise, and even then he still refused to look at Peter.

 

          “Oh, uhm, do you have my numbers?” So hopeful.

 

          Tony was already walking away as fast as he could manage, ignoring the twinges of pain from his ankle. “Someone will call you, okay?” he called back.

 

          “Thank you, Mr Stark!”

 

          Tony turned around then. Peter was smiling, brown eyes catching glints in the noon sun. His hair was a little rumpled, a stray lock across his forehead. But that smile…God, he was _beautiful_. He waved good-bye to the kid and continued on.

 

 _Don’t thank me yet, kid_ , Tony thought, _I don’t know what I’ve gotten you into already._

*******************

 

          “Where did Tony go?” May was carrying three bottles of water, two mineral and one sparkling.

 

          “He, uhm, had a work emergency,” Peter said lamely, “Told us the gazebo might not be such a good place to go to at the moment.”

          

          What had that been about? Was it because he had been hinting he wanted a job? He didn’t think Mr Stark would mind if he worked for Stark Technologies. Peter knew that he was good programmer, maybe a little unskilled but isn’t that what working for an experienced mentor was for?

 

          Or maybe he had made Mr Stark uncomfortable. That was probably it.

 

          “That’s too bad,” May said, “I thought you were really excited to see some science.”

          

          “Science is everywhere, not just in computers” Peter said vaguely. From the corner of his eye, he saw a girl a little older than him take a photo of him with her phone. Or at least, she seemed to have been taking a photo of him. Probably not. Why would anyone take an interest in him?

 

          “I was joking, Peter.” May put an arm around his shoulder and gave him a half-hug. Peter got out of it, pretending to take one of the bottled waters from her.

 

          May said nothing and instead drank from her own bottle.

 

          Peter tried not to look at her face, and instead looked around. He saw another girl gape at him as she passed by. She gave him a huge smile and a thumbs up, before hurrying off.

 

          Well, that was weird.

 

          “So where did you want to go next?” May asked.

 

          “You wanna check out Steve’s booth?” Peter suggested, “I think it’s a gym thing.” Steve had said that it was called Triskelion Fitness. Of course it _would_ be a gym. The guy probably lived there or something.

          

          “Thinking of beefing up?” May teased, “Get your summer bod on?”

         

           “Something like that.”


	5. James Buchanan Barnes

_April 28, 2017, 8:58 am, ante-mortem_

          “Hey, I picked up your usual on my way here,” Steve announced as he entered the interview room of Triskelion Fitness. The room was a little crammed because it really wasn’t big enough for the couch, two chairs and computer desk that they put in. But it had been the only space left in the building.

 

          “Steve, you are a lifesaver!” Okoye’s greeting was followed by the woman swiftly taking the paper bag Steve had been holding in one hand. With her clean-shaven scalp, stern features and no-nonsense attitude, Okoye was an intimidating figure. Anyone who ever saw her teaching Krav Maga at Triskelion would undoubtedly agree. But Steve had seen her indulge her one vice: Starbucks products. It was quite a contrast between seeing Okoye mop the training floor with some uppity guy and Okoye murmuring sweet nothings to glazed donuts.

 

          “You want something to wash that down with?” Steve chuckled at the glee on Okoye’s face when he handed her a cup of coffee. 

 

          “Where’s Sam?” he asked, booting up the computer to check their interview schedule for the day. He didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad that there were only three names on their list.

 

          “He’s picking up the first interviewee,” Okoye answered, tearing apart her third donut and dipping a piece in her drink. “He says that the guy might be priority.”

 

          Steve raised an eyebrow at that. Sam usually reserved judgement until after they had done the interview. He looked at the first name on the list. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, deployed to Afghanistan at twenty” he read, “just getting back from, wow, _eight years_ of duty.”

 

          “Eight years? Without any leave?” Okoye stopped eating to frown at him. Steve could understand her apprehension – serving for that long seemed unbearable.  “Doesn’t have any family, does he?”

 

          Steve nodded. “Joined the army at eighteen, after his parents were killed in a bus crash.” He could sympathize. Steve had joined up when he was only a year older than that, after his mother had died due to complications in routine surgery. His father had already been long gone by then, taken by a heart attack when Steve was seven.

 

          “Anything else on the file? Something that would make Sam say he is priority?”

 

          “Yeah, there is,” Steve said, sadly, “Sergeant Barnes lost his left arm in an explosion. He just spent the last four months in recovery.”

 

          Okoye sighed, shaking her head. “We still need to interview him, though. And ask the question.”

 

          Steve was about to protest, when Okoye spoke over him. “I know Sergeant Barnes has had a very rough time, but we can’t make exceptions. It’s not fair to all the others.”

 

          Steve just gave her a curt nod before turning back to the computer monitor. He began to read their files on all three of their interviewees.

 

          Nearly two years ago, Steve, Okoye and Sam had founded Triskelion Fitness as a means to an end. Steve had always been passionate about veterans and their care, being one himself. The reason he had moved to California was because it had the most number of veterans, with over one and a half million residing in it. And he knew that not all of them were ready to deal with life after service. So he had talked Sam and Okoye to starting Triskelion with him.

 

          With the money they made from gym membership, private training sessions and a generous donation from T’Challa, they set up an account with which to help struggling veterans. They had started small, with soup kitchens and clothing drives for homeless vets. Eventually, they raised enough money to buy a small house for transitional living. They also used the fund to give financial aid to veterans who were struggling with medical bills or had difficulty finding employment.

          

          It was Sam who had pointed out that the needs of veterans did not end with the physical and financial. He created a support group for veterans with PTSD and had them regularly throw parties and barbecues for all the veterans they sustained, past and present. Social bonding was just as important as a check, Sam had said. Not to mention he had managed to get Dr Banner, the best psychotherapist in Stanley Cove, to treat veterans they referred to him at a quarter of his usual price.

 

          However, they just couldn’t give money to everyone. Even their fund had a limit, and the gym still needed revenue to function. Steve was acutely aware that Triskelion was more reliant on resources from donations and fundraisers that he would like. There was also the fact that not every veteran used their money responsibly. Twice before they had discovered that someone they were helping had a drug habit. They had even had a veteran with a gambling problem, who had fled town for Vegas after receiving a check from them.

 

          Okoye had put her foot down and insisted that they have an interview process, as well as a standard background check. It helped them prioritize those who had more immediate problems and were truly bereft of aid. Those who had no living family, for example, or whose injuries prevented them from securing jobs soon enough.

 

          It still pained Steve to turn someone down, but what could he do? And it wasn’t like they didn’t try to help them even if they couldn’t give financial aid. They tried to find other ways to help, like securing employment or loans. They had sent both vets with drug problems to reliable rehab facilities.

 

          The sound of the door opening made Steve look up from the computer monitor.

 

          “Good morning, guys,” Sam said, as he entered the room. Sam had an easy-going air about him, a lightness that made people open up. It was what something that helped him during group sessions. He indicated the man who had followed him into the room. “This is Sergeant Barnes, he’s first up today.”

 

          James Buchanan Barnes was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair. Steve noticed that he wasn’t as tanned as someone should be after eight years in Afghanistan. Four months in a recovery ward had bleached his complexion. Steve’s eyes drifted to the stump of Sergeant Barnes’ left arm. He couldn’t help it.

 

          Steve looked up, aware that nobody liked their wounds scrutinized. And he saw Sergeant Barnes’ eyes. He had seen the hunted look in those eyes before. He knew the shadows that lingered around the man’s eyes were from sleepless nights.

 

          “Good to meet you, Sergeant Barnes,” Steve said, offering his hand for a shake. Then he froze. Should he not have? Was it insensitive to do so?

 

          “Call me Bucky, please.” The other man broke Steve’s stupor by grasping the proffered hand firmly and shaking it. 

 

          “Alright. Bucky it is then.” He gestured at the couch. “Shall we start?”

 

*******************

 

_April 28, 2017, 2:13 pm, ante-mortem_

 

 

          “So, we ready to deliberate?” Sam had just returned from dropping the last of their interviewees. Okoye had printed out the background checks they had done and was flicking through them. Steve was already pretty set on Sergea – _Bucky_.

 

          If not for just one detail.

 

          “His discharge was OTH,” Okoye pointed out when Steve suggested Bucky.

 

          Discharge Other Than Honourable was not the worst kind the military could hand out. But it did mean that Bucky had done something that was not aligned with military protocol. Whatever it was, it wasn’t particularly criminal; if it had been, he would have gotten a Bad Conduct Discharge or even a Dishonourable Discharge.

 

          Triskelion’s formulaic interview process involved asking what kind of discharge a soldier had, especially since they believed it’s only right for a vet to prove they’re capable of being responsible with the financial aid. The process had limits though, which included not asking the particulars of a discharge without a truly pressing need.

 

          “All that means to me is that he doesn’t get VA benefits,” Steve countered. Loss of that privilege was something that came with an OTH.

 

          “Steve’s right,” Sam said heavily, “That guy needs continuous physical rehab, as well as a prosthetic arm.” He paused and looked from Okoye to Steve. “He also needs therapy. No one walks away from an explosion without bringing something dark back.”

 

          Okoye nodded but otherwise remained impassive.

 

          “That OTH is also gonna make it harder for him to get a job anytime soon,” Steve added. Convincing Okoye was necessary. The three of them needed to unanimously agree on which people they were going to take on. It was the system they had agreed to, and he wasn’t going to try to upset it now.

 

          “Okoye, he’s got no one else, no one to look out for him,” Steve began, sitting opposite her. “I’m going to help him on my own if I have to.”

 

          There, Steve had said it. He didn’t mean it as a threat or anything. He was just stating fact. He was not going to leave someone like Bucky alone and without any support.

 

          The woman looked at him before she sighed deeply. “I’ll agree. But only if we monitor him closely.”

 

          “Don’t worry,” Steve assured her, “I’ll keep both eyes on him.”

 

*******************

 

_May 10, 2017, 5:18 pm, ante-mortem_

          Steve knocked on the door of Bucky’s quarters. The transitional house was a modest building, and could only be divided into four small dormitories. Each dormitory was basically a studio apartment, with private bathrooms. The house’s kitchen and dining areas were communal spaces, to provide a sort of meeting place for whoever was living in the house at the time.

 

          Sam had gotten worried about Bucky when he had come over to check in that morning. According to the other veterans who lived in the house, Bucky had not once eaten with them, preferring to take his meals in privacy. He left his dorm only to go to physical therapy or for his weekly psychiatric sessions.

 

          Steve, on the other hand, had received a text from Dr Banner saying that Bucky had missed their session that morning. He would have dropped by the house sooner, but there were several important errands in Triskelion that Steve could not ditch.

 

          He knocked again after a minute. “Bucky, it’s Steve Rogers. Can I come in?”

 

          There was a faint sound from behind the door, a low scraping sound. Steve recognized it as the sound of a chair being pulled away from the door.

 

          So he barricaded himself inside.

 

          The door was unlocked and it creaked open. Steve stepped quickly inside and assessed the room.

 

          Everything was pristine. The trash and cartons of food were all neatly put in garbage bags. The complimentary pile of magazines and a few books were organized on a tiny folding table. The neatness and order imposed on the place should have been a comfort. What worried Steve were the windows.

 

          Bucky had used unfolded cereal boxes to completely block the small windows. Without the light coming from the hallway, the room would be in darkness.

 

          Bucky was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hunted eyes glinting. “Shut the door,” he muttered, looking away from the dim light coming through the doorway. 

 

          “Hear you don’t go out much,” Steve said as he closed the door, before leaning against the wall.

 

          “Don’t like to go out,” Bucky murmured, “Too bright.”

 

          “Is that why you redecorated?” He indicated the covered windows. Steve’s vision began to adjust to the almost non-existent light. He saw the sweat-drenched sheets that covered the bed. The path that anxious feet had left on the carpet.

 

          “Why don’t you like light?” 

 

          Bucky didn’t answer immediately.

 

          “It was around noon when it happened.” His voice was toneless. It was like hearing the voice of a cadaver. “My unit was en route to a rendezvous point. Reports said that the road was clear. I was driving the last vehicle.” His hand twitched, as if gripping a steering wheel.

 

          “The RPG flipped the truck over. I managed to open the door before it fell. Rolled out. Nearly got away. Nearly. The wreckage pinned my left arm, crushed it. Then the shooting…”

 

          It was as if Bucky was in a trance, his dark eyes staring.

 

          “The rest of my unit were gunned down or trapped. I spent an hour with the sun over me. Listening to the gunfight. I couldn’t hear my own screams. The pain that was my left arm. It just built and built, until I lost all feeling in it. That’s when I knew it would have to come off. I didn’t know which was worse: the pain or the loss of it.”

 

          Bucky exhaled slowly, coming out from his reverie. “All I could think of was that someone should turn off the fucking sun. Take away the light. It was blinding me. Burning me.”

 

          Steve didn’t know what to say. Silence seemed to be the best option.

 

          Bucky broke it, shifting to directly face Steve. “People usually say something by now,” he said.

 

          “I want to say I’m sorry,” Steve said softly, after a while. “But I have a feeling you’ve heard that too many times already.”

 

          Bucky let out a small chuckle. “Way more times than you could count, man.”

 

          “I _am_ sorry, though,” Steve continued, “I promised to keep an eye out on you. Make sure you’re doing okay. And I haven’t asked about you for days now.”

 

          “I’m alright. I really am.” Lies. Even Bucky must know that he was lying to himself.

 

          “Tell you what,” Steve said easily, “in a few hours, the sun will go down. You wanna go have dinner outside, just us two?”

 

          Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You asking me out, Rogers?”

 

          “If by ‘out’ you mean I want you to leave this room for a little while, yeah. I’m asking you out.”

 

          “Okay then. Tell me when it’s dark out?”

 

          Steve nodded. “But sooner or later, you’re gonna have to see the sun again.”

 

*******************

 

_May 22, 8:32 pm, 2017, ante-mortem_

 

           It became a routine for Steve to drop by the house after the sun had set. The two of them would talk for an hour or two, Steve sitting on the chair by the door while Bucky remained on the bed. He got to know Bucky’s silhouette intimately. The distinct shape of him in the dark.

 

           Their conversations were meandering, but always about little things. Films they had both watched, for example, and what they thought about them. One of their longest conversations was spent speculating on what was inside the suitcase in _Pulp Fiction_. Another time, they ranked flavours of ice cream. Bucky had snorted when Steve ranked vanilla at number one.

 

           Though they had both served in the army, neither of them ever brought it up. Steve didn’t think Bucky was comfortable discussing his time in service yet. But Sam had told him Bucky was beginning to open up in group sessions, even if he only ever spoke a sentence or two.  

 

           After they talked, Steve would invite Bucky to have dinner outside. Always at a different restaurant. Sometimes Sam would be there. Or Okoye would come by with her friend, Nakia. But Bucky preferred it when it was just the two of them.

 

           The sound of the chair being removed from its position jamming the door was part of the routine. Steve would wait for its scrape to stop and for Bucky’s tread to retreat. Only then would he enter.

 

           Until one night, Bucky simply opened the door; the chair had not been shoved under the knob. Steve followed him inside, and felt a surge of hope when he saw that a tiny lamp was turned on. Its light was almost negligible, just a faint illumination no brighter than a tea candle’s. But it was still light.

 

           That night, the night of the twenty-second, Steve went through the routine questions: how was physical therapy? Did you share in group this week? Did Dr Banner say you made a lot of progress?

 

           Bucky’s answers were satisfactory: his therapist said that they were making good headway into rebuilding his muscle strength, he shared a little in but he wasn’t quite there yet, and Dr Banner was pleased with his progress.

 

           Bucky was still very reluctant to go out during daylight, especially at noon. But Steve had slowly talked him into only avoiding 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., the hours when the sun was more or less directly overhead. It was still a huge leap forward in Steve’s book.

 

           “Hey,” Steve said, “Have you ever tried Korean barbecue?”

 

           Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. “You asking me out, Rogers?”

 

           This was also part of the routine, somehow. And always, Steve would deny it. But that night, for the first time, a part of Steve wanted to say _“Yes”_.

 

           But he didn’t. Because Bucky needed to heal, and Steve was not going to take advantage of his isolation and dependence. He knew better. Didn’t he?

 

           Instead, Steve said “Nope, but Okoye and Sam are waiting for us at this place, Seoulfire. Sam’s been craving all day.”

 

           Bucky let out a small laugh, “One of these days I’ll…” He trailed off and looked at Steve.

 

           “You’ll what?” He didn’t know what answer Bucky was going to give. But that small part, that part that was making Steve both uncomfortable and elated in Bucky’s presence…it wanted Bucky to say “ _One of these days I’ll get that ‘yes’ from you, Steve”_.

 

           “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Let me change first.”

 

           When he had gone downstairs to wait for Bucky, Steve clasped his head with both hands.

 

           What was wrong with him?

 

*******************

 

           Later that night, lying in his bed, Steve called Sam.

 

           “ _Steve? It’s kinda late, man. You leave something at the barbecue place?_ ”

 

           “Sorry for waking you, pal. Can you do me a solid?”

 

           “ _What is it? It’s not something weird is it? Nat didn’t dare you to do anything again did she?_ ”

 

           “No, nothing like that. It’s just…I’m really busy with the, uh, the stuff for June. Busy month, you know? So can you check in on Bucky for the rest of the month?” Lying was not one of Steve’s talents. He hated doing it, he hated hearing it. So he chose instead to avoid telling a truth rather than telling an outright lie.

_“Sure thing, man. Hey, hey, before you hang up, you think we should invite him to go to the Summer Fair?”_

 

           Steve thought about it. Was Bucky ready for that?

 

           “It’s weeks away, so, if you tell him about it now, that might give him enough time to prepare himself, you know?” That sounded like a good enough answer. Bucky was beginning to readjust to daylight more and more. Might even be cathartic.

 

_“Sure thing, man. By the way, Okoye’sgonna buy him a cellphone tomorrow. We’re using the fund, of course.”_

 

           “That’s great. Make sure he has all our numbers.”

 

_“Yeah, will do. Now, will you let me sleep?”_

           

           Steve ended the call. But no sleep came. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? He couldn’t allow himself to become involved with Bucky that way. Bucky had no one else to turn to. It wasn’t fair for Steve to abuse that fact.

 

           So why did he still see Bucky’s silhouette in the dark behind his eyelids?

 

*******************

 

_June 4, 2017, 11:34 am, ante-mortem_

 

            “Steve, it’s too bright.” Bucky’s hand tightened its grip on Steve’s. From the public restroom, they had avoided the most crowded areas of the Fair and were nearly at the Triskelion Fitness booth. Steve felt the perspiration on Bucky’s palm, the slight tremor running through him.

 

           If only he could turn off the fucking sun. But since he wasn’t a supervillain…

 

           “I have an idea, just hold on for just a little while,” he assured Bucky. Together, Bucky holding on to his hand, they went to a nearby stall.

 

           “How much for the wraparound shades?” Steve asked the guy with the poorly executed beard who ran the stall. He felt a hot spike of rage when the guy looked at Bucky and immediately stared at the stump of his left arm.

 

           “I said ‘How much for the shades?’” Steve growled, looming over the guy. It jolted the guy from his staring and shifted his attention back to Steve.

 

           “Fifteen bucks, man.”

 

           Steve handed over the money, even though he knew that the shades were probably only worth ten. But Bucky’s breathing was slowly getting faster. The guy couldn’t have handed the shades fast enough.

 

           “Bucky, look at me,” Steve murmured. The other man did so, tinges of panic in his eyes. He had to do it quickly. Steve extricated his hand from Bucky’s. He ignored the way Bucky’s hand chased his own. With both hands to steady it, he slipped the shades on Bucky.

 

           The effect was…astounding. Bucky let out a long sigh of relief, the tension that had been building on his shoulders evaporating. The slight shaking of his arm stopped.

 

           Bucky slowly enfolded Steve in an embrace. He wanted to push Bucky away, to give the man some space. But his traitorous arms reached up and circled Bucky’s torso. Damn him.

 

           “Hey, it’s only a cheap pair of sunglasses,” Steve chuckled, keeping his voice normal.

 

           Bucky said nothing, but just tightened his arm around Steve for a moment. And then he was laughing fit to burst, pulling away and staring up at the sky. A few people were looking at him, but he ignored them.

 

           “Fuck you!” Bucky laughed, still with his face turned up to the burning sky. He let out a long whoop, raised his arm, and flipped off the _sun_. “I win, so _fuck you!_ ” His joyous face was radiant. 

 

           It was then that Steve knew that he was falling in love with the man who was laughing with abandon as he cursed and shouted defiance at the sun.

 

*******************

 

           “Bucky, glad you could make it, man!” Sam was seated behind the Triskelion booth’s sign-up table when they arrived. Behind him, in a space that was protected from the sun by a parachute tent, Nakia and Okoye were already putting away training mats and other gear.

 

           “I almost didn’t,” Bucky said as he took a seat next to Sam. Steve was still trying to wrap his head around how different Bucky was with the anxiousness and fear staved off. His entire body language and demeanour were relaxed, free, and more confident. Bucky had not stopped grinning since he had put on the shades.

 

           The next challenge was to make him be that way without the shades. Though seeing Bucky now made the $15 shades a passable solution.

 

           Sam was showing Bucky how many people had signed up to be new members. Bucky gave a low chuckle and asked how many were really going to stick with it.

 

           Steve made his way to Okoye and Nakia, the former giving him a concerned look. “Where did you find him?” was all she asked.

 

           “He had a panic attack,” Steve said, leaning down to help pile up the mats. “He took a breather in a bathroom.”

 

           “He seems a lot better now,” Okoye admitted, “But we can’t drop the ball again like that.”

 

           “It was one bad call, okay?” Steve sighed. He already felt terrible about that morning, when he let Bucky go to the Fair alone. The guilt was like knife at his side. “I’ve been keeping my distance, and all that. Showing him that we know he can handle life on his own.”

 

           Okoye grunted. “If we’re going to see him through this, we can’t do it half-assed. Sam says that he’s not doing so well at the house. And Dr Banner says that Bucky needs to interact with someone, and help him around while we wait for a prosthesis.”

 

           “What do you think I’m doing?” Steve answered, “I mean, what else _can_ I do?” There was something he could do for Bucky, and it had already occurred to Steve. But he didn’t want to say it.

 

           “Hey guys!” Sam’s voice cut the tension. Steve was thankful for the interruption. “What are you all hankering for? I’m going for a lunch run!”

 

           Okoye gave Steve a look that said they weren’t finished yet before she went over to Sam. The two of them listed down their various orders and went off to bring food.

 

           “Bucky could move in with you, at least for the time being.”

 

           Nakia’s voice was nearly always soothing. A former relief volunteer, she had met T’Challa during an operation in Ghana, where the anthropologist-turned-gallery-owner had been at the time. Nakia had been the one to suggest that T’Challa should come back to the US and share all his knowledge and research. She pointed out that he could foster appreciation and awareness of African cultures. They had been together ever since.

 

           She managed the funds and charitable activities of Triskelion, having experience with similar endeavours. When she had the time, she taught the yoga classes. Sometimes, people would express doubt that someone with as full and luscious a figure as Nakia could teach yoga. They seemed to think that “yoga instructor” meant “twig”. Nakia would tell these people that they were dead wrong, were more than welcome to drop the class, and then given a very scathing “Namaste”.

 

           “I’m not sure that’s really a good idea,” Steve replied. “I’m getting too…invested in him, Nakia. Too attached.”

 

           Nakia touched his arm. “He’s gone so long without anyone, Steve. Maybe that’s what someone like Bucky needs right now,” she said kindly, “Someone to care about him. To be attached to.”

 

           “ _Maybe_ I can help. But what if I hurt him or-”

 

           Nakia let out a soft laugh. “Steve, I don’t think you can ever really hurt anyone. You won’t let yourself.” She patted his cheek. “Just think about it, okay?” With that, Nakia walked over to Bucky, greeting him warmly.

 

           Steve looked at Bucky, at ease and happy. For now, at least. Bucky lowered the sunglasses a fraction and caught his gaze. Bucky smiled, and it was the first time the expression reached his eyes.

 

           Steve wished that Nakia was right. That he was incapable of hurting someone, of breaking someone’s heart. But thanks to Tony Stark, he knew better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS IS LATE. Its been a tough week and I wanted to do this chapter justice. For all you peeps out there who were expecting this to be a Starker centric fic, I apologize. But the Stucky part is just as important as Tony's and Peter's.  
> Thank you all for reading! And your lovely comments and kudos fuels me.


	6. Cheap Cutie; Confrontation

_November 1, 2017, 2:49 pm, post-mortem_

 

           “Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” Nick Fury said, entering the interrogation room, where Natasha was on her feet. He set down two cups of coffee and three sugar packets on the table, where a few pages of the case files were spread out for Natasha to read.

 

          Natasha murmured her thanks and poured all the sugar into her cup. Wanda Maximoff had just left a couple of minutes earlier, and Fury knew Natasha had been barely keeping her temper in check.

 

          Though the detective kept a cool and professional tone throughout the entire interview, Wanda’s air of bored impudence had tested Natasha’s patience. Fury saw it in the way her fingers had drummed a slow tattoo on the tabletop and how her pen almost sliced through the paper as she wrote down notes.

 

          “You alright there, Romanoff?” he asked, sipping his own coffee.

 

          “Petty bitch,” Natasha hissed, gathering the papers and putting them back in their folder, all except the photo. Her eyes burned when she glanced at it. “That kid didn’t need the shit that Wanda dumped on him. She was mad at Stark. She didn’t have to drag Parker into it. He was just there.”

 

          “I’ve long given up on trying to explain how folks can be so shallow,” Fury mused, “How someone can look at a person and only see an opportunity to hurt someone else. Now, I’m fine not knowing how someone can be a cold-hearted son of a bitch.”

 

          Natasha huffed, and then her mask of serenity was back. Sometimes it still bothered Fury how easy it was for her to shut down her emotions when she needed to. “How do you live with not knowing?” she asked as she sat down, taking a drink of coffee.

 

          “By catching the sons of bitches when they _do_ hurt someone.”

 

          Fury did not miss the way Natasha glanced at him, the hint of a question in her eyes.  “Damn good way to live,” was all she said as raised her cup in a toast. They finished their cups in silence.

 

          “Who’s up next?” Fury asked, tossing the paper cups into a small metal waste basket in the corner. Natasha checked her list.

 

          “A senior at Stanley Cove Technical,” Natasha replied, retrieving a couple of stapled sheets of paper. “Michelle Jones.”

 

*******************

 

_June 4, 2017, 11:56 am, ante-mortem_

 

          “That’s like the fourth girl who’s taken a picture of you,” May said, raising an eyebrow at Peter. “Looks like being the new guy’s going to do wonders for your dating life.”

 

          Peter smiled half-heartedly, though he was sort of freaking out inside, for a number of reasons. Peter really didn’t think he was anything much to look at; no one had ever expressed that kind of interest in him in New York. Peter had also never showed his interest in anyone, for the second reason.

 

          He hadn’t gotten around to telling May that he was gay. There was never a good time to do so, certainly not in the past year. He figured he’d tell May when he had an actual boyfriend. Which created a sort of paradoxical problem. 

 

          The third reason Peter was freaking out was because he didn’t think the attention was because of anything good.

 

          He had seen one of the girls giggle after taking a picture, and whisper eagerly to her friends before leaving. It could just be about harmless stuff, but the way they had looked at him made him think otherwise. Peter was also perceptive enough to note that not all the people who were suddenly very interested in him were girls. He had seen a guy maybe twice his age look at him with concern and shake his head.

 

 _What the hell is happening?_ Peter thought. How did this people even know who he was? What could he have done to suddenly be the center of attention? What did they _know_?

 

          “Peter? You okay, sweetie?” May’s voice brought him back. She was getting worried again, because of him.

 

          “I’m sorry, it – it’s nothing, really,” Peter murmured.

 

          “Well, we’re here,” May said, still frowning a little, “look, there’s Steve.”

 

          The two of them stopped in front of a table with a printed out sign that said “ _SIGN-UP AND SHAPE UP_ ” taped to it. Behind it was a large area under a parachute tent, but apparently they had come too late for demonstrations, as it was clear of equipment.

 

          Steve and four other people were sitting on piled mats, eating take-out. Two were women, both with dark skin. Aside from their skin color, they could not have been more different. The one with a clean-shaven head, who held herself with the coiled strength of a fighter, was wearing a dark orange attire. The other one, with hair that curled close to her scalp was more languid, and graceful as a dancer, was dressed in a soothing green.

 

          The two other men with Steve were also different from one another. One was a black man with a friendly, open face with a thin beard. He had an easy smile and was more raucous than the other. The third man though…

 

          The man was sitting with them, but Peter could sense even from afar that he was apart from them. His dark hair was a little long, and he wore sunglasses even under the shadow of the tent. Peter was surprised when he saw that the man also only had one arm. The man turned to speak to Steve, and saw Peter.

 

          Even behind the tinted lenses, Peter knew that the man was looking him in the eyes.

 

          “May! Peter! Glad you could make it!” Steve called, spotting them as well. He pushed himself up and made his way towards them. Behind him, the man with the sunglasses nodded at Peter, as if in understanding. He returned the gesture, though he didn’t know exactly why.

 

          “Didn’t get into any more near-accidents on your way here, did you?” Steve said when he came up to them. Peter flushed and began to stammer out an apology of some sort but May spoke first.

 

          “He’s not going to get the chance to be in any near-accidents for at least a week,” she said, but not unkindly.

 

          “I am really, _super_ sorry about the, uh, near-accident,” Peter said, looking up at Steve.

 

          The man just a waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad neither of you got hurt or anything.” Steve clapped his hands and smiled. “So, which one of you thinks they could be fitter?”

 

          May pointed a finger at Peter, who awkwardly raised his hand.

 

          “Uhm, I have, like, a question,” Peter said, “How much is the, uh, the monthly fee or something?” He gaped when Steve mentioned their fees. Peter looked at May, who pursed her lips and gave him a small, sad shake of her head. Steve noticed the exchange, though.

 

          “Look, Peter,” Steve began, “you don’t have to go to a gym to be fitter. Sure, there’s more equipment, and trainers like me are there to help, but home workouts can do exactly what you want. And cost a lot less.”

 

          “How, uhm, can I start? Like what things do I have to do?”

 

          Steve considered this. “Well, you can never go wrong by starting with a run. Build up your cardio, test your stamina. Try to run a couple of miles, just to see your limits.”

 

          Peter took out his phone and began typing out what Steve had been saying. “What about like workouts?”

 

          Steve recommended a basic workout routine, which he said would help Peter build some strength and muscle. He also emphasized that Peter take his time, and to not expect any drastic body changes immediately.

 

          “Hey, if you want, we could jog together,” Steve suggested. “I could show you around, see to it that you get a sense of where everything is.”

 

          May looked delighted. “That sounds perfect! Thank you, Steve.”

 

          Peter thought about it. Something about the way Steve had spoken made him think that the man wanted to talk in private. And the only thing that sort of connected him with Steve was Mr Stark. Who was not Steve’s favorite person, if the tension at the parking lot was any indication.

 

          “Yeah, yeah,” Peter said, handing Steve his phone, “uhm, can I have your number so I can give you a call when I do go on a run?” He looked around while Steve typed in his number. He saw one of the women, the graceful one in green, glance at him and down at her phone and back up to his face. She suddenly looked anxious.

 

          Peter felt the unease stir in him again.

 

          “Our afternoon demos are going to start in a few minutes,” Steve said, giving Peter back his phone, “You’re more than welcome to stay and maybe even participate, if you feel like it.”

 

          Frankly, the mere thought of doing anything more in the heat exhausted Peter. And he wanted to get away from all the people staring at him. What could he have done? But he didn’t want to be rude to Steve.

 

          Thankfully, May was just as tired as he was. “We’d love to,” she said, “but I’m kinda worn out by all the walking. Thinking of calling it a day and going home already.”

 

          Steve assured them that it was okay, before turning to Peter. “Just give me a call when you feel like going on that run, okay? Doesn’t matter how early. Mornings are the best time for it, anyway.” Again, there was that promise of a private conversation in his words.

 

          “Sure thing,” Peter replied, “Thanks for everything, Steve.”

 

          “I think I’ve had enough sun and fun for the day,” May sighed, as they walked away, “Do you want to stick around here? I could pick you up later, if you want.”

 

          From the corner of his eye, Peter saw two young men look at their phones and smirk at him. He felt a lump in his throat. _What did he do?_

 

          “No, no. Let’s go. Kinda just wanna crash in my room, too.”

 

 

*******************

 

 

          Steve watched May and Peter go, feeling hopeful of his chances at dissuading the kid from getting involved with Stark. He was a good kid, and probably had more sense than others his age.

 

          “Steve, a word?” Nakia had approached, worry in her eyes as she looked at something on her phone.

 

          “What is it?”

 

          “I want you to stay calm,” Nakia said, her voice assuming that quality that Steve called her ‘yoga voice’. “For all we know, this was taken out of context. A picture doesn’t tell a whole story, after all.”

 

          “But they do say a thousand words,” Steve cut in, “Which is plenty enough, sometimes. What are you talking about Nakia?”

 

          Wordlessly, she handed over her phone.

 

          It was an Instagram account that she was following, @scarlet_witch, who Steve knew was some woman named Wanda. The picture, though, was not one of Wanda, or the usual things she chose to catalogue.

 

          It showed Stark and Peter, somewhere in the Fair. Stark was casually touching Peter’s ass, a determined expression on his bearded face. Peter was smiling, though, but something about it seemed off to Steve. The boy’s brown eyes were trained on Stark’s.

 

          Steve could feel his pulse rising. Tony was at it again. Only this time, the boy was much, _much_ younger. Wanda’s caption, however, made it worse.

 

_Then he crept into my waiting arms, radiant, relaxed, caressing me with his tender, mysterious, impure, indifferent, twilight eyes – for all the world, like the cheapest of cheap cuties._

_#NabokovRedux_

_#questionableromancevibes_

_#heyoungtho_

_#heREALLYyoungtho_

_#cheapcutie_

 

          The time stamp on the photo said 11:37 a.m. And it already had a hundred likes, and nearly twice that in comments. Steve knew better than to read them. But the few he glimpsed made him clench his jaw in anger. And Wanda Maximoff had _260,000_ followers, nearly nine times the population of Stanley Cove.

 

          “Christ, he doesn’t even know,” Steve muttered, thinking of Peter. He had just moved here. He was seventeen and still innocent. And already Stark had gotten his claws into him. Tony. That _bastard_. Steve’s hands were clenched into fists, knuckles straining.

 

          “Don’t do anything rash, Steve,” Nakia murmured urgently, as she took back her phone. “We don’t know the whole story. You need to stop and _think about this_.”

 

          But the rush of the rage was too loud to ignore. Tony.

 

          “Keep an eye on Bucky,” Steve said quietly, already striding away. Nakia tried to take a hold of his arm but he pulled away. He could hear her calling him, and then Sam and Okoye. Steve sped up, ignoring the yelps and cries of people he shoved or nearly knocked over.

 

          Tony Stark. He was going to have to have a few choice _words_ with the man.

 

 

*******************

 

 

_June 4, 2017, 11:58 am, ante-mortem_

 

          “JARVIS, where the hell is Happy?” Tony complained. He was seated in what was officially a ‘temporary support structure’ right behind the Stark Technologies gazebo. In reality it was a sort of longue and nap area for the employees manning the various exhibits and desks. Tony was thankful that the prefabricated room had air-conditioning and a couple of sofas.

 

 _“Mr Hogan is still returning the Mercedes to your residence,”_ JARVIS responded, his voice coming from a wall screen the employees used to watch videos or play games. The AI’s ability to interface wirelessly with nearly all electronic devices was something Tony was very proud of.

 

          “Then who the fuck is bringing my clothes?” Tony scowled. He had stripped to the waist, discarding the sweaty shirt and the blazer that Thor had ruined. He was due to announce…something about a special offer on their new software packages? The point was, he wasn’t going to speak in front of a crowd in the state of dress he was in.

 

          The door opened with a click and Pepper stepped inside, holding a garment bag. _“Miss Potts is bringing you your replacement attire,”_ JARVIS supplied, a little late. Her coppery hair was coiled in a bun on her nape, its sheen heightened by the oyster gray of her smooth, precisely cut dress. _“I hope you are well today, Miss Potts.”_

 

          “I am. Thank you for asking, JARVIS,” Pepper said, sitting down across from Tony. She offered him the garment bag. He took it and unzipped it. Pepper had picked out a simple but stylish ensemble: a tan summer jacket and a white V-neck shirt. He hurriedly slipped them on, getting antsier as the silence in the room stretched.

 

          “So,” Tony said, when he was fully dressed, “how’s your summer so far? Any big developments?”

 

          Pepper gave him a wry smile. Over the years, Tony had gotten to know all of her smiles. This one wasn’t one of his favorites. “Saw _Hamilton_ for the fifth time. Joined the board of PayPal, though I really shouldn’t have.” She paused and looked away from him. “And finalized our divorce.”

 

          Her voice was quiet. She was no longer smiling. The silence in the room was worse now.

 

          They had been separated for two years now, since…what had happened. But because she didn’t step down as CEO of Stark Tech and Tony never asked her to, they still regularly saw each other. Always because of company matters, though. Tony had never felt comfortable enough to ask her why she stayed on, either.

 

          For two years, they had been polite and impersonal with one another. Which seemed preferable to the way other divorcing couples seemed to behave.

 

          Except for that one night, she had never talked to him about his transgression. Never yelled, not even when he had confessed, almost never made snide remarks about it. She was always professional, though understandably distant. If their situations had been reversed, Tony didn’t think he would have handled it that way. That was it – Pepper had always been more mature than him. And she was one of the very few who reminded Tony he possessed a conscience.

 

           There was so many things Tony wanted to tell her but they all seemed pointless. What more could be said, anyway?

 

          “That took longer than I thought it would,” he said, trying to keep it light. The guilt started tearing into him again, but he forced himself to talk “I mean, considering I didn’t contest the divorce.”

 

          Pepper pursed her lips and shrugged. Tony also knew that face. She was building up to something. He waited for her to speak, hating the silence. Hating that he had an idea of what she was going to ask.

 

          “Tony, who’s the boy?”

 

          “New kid in town,” he replied, voice nonchalant, “He helped me when I rolled my ankle, so I took him and his aunt to meet a few people. You were actually on the list of people I wanted them to meet. Has a good head on his shoulders. ”

 

          “We just got divorced,” Pepper said, an edge to her voice.

 

          “What does _that_ have to do with Peter?” Tony’s voice was a little loud. The tension was riling him up. So he stood up, grabbed his cane and paced the room, deliberately avoiding looking at Pepper. “And by the way, how do you even _know_ about him? I thought we cancelled making spy drones? Or did you free up some of the budget for a PI to tail me?”

 

          “If I had hired a private investigator I would have known you were having an affair.”

 

 _That_ stopped Tony in his tracks. He heard Pepper take a deep breath. The comment hurt but he had hurt her a lot worse. Tony closed his eyes and just waited for Pepper to speak again.

 

          “JARVIS, bring up Wanda Maximoff’s latest upload on Instagram,” Pepper commanded.

 

 _“Of course, Miss Potts.”_ After a second or two, there was a sound that indicated JARVIS had finished the required process.

 

          Pepper nodded towards the screen. “Look.”

 

          Tony turned to the screen and felt outrage suddenly flare up in him. He was getting furious, and he could only focus on parts of the posts in flashes.

 

          His hand on Peter’s-

          

          # _heyoungtho_

 

          The way Peter’s smile was-

 

          # _cheapcutie_

 

_-caressing me with his-_

 

          “Tony?”

 

          The look of determination on his face-

 

          # _cheapcutie_

 

          “Tony.”

 

          - _crept into my waiting arms-_

 

          # _CHEAPCUTIE_

 

          “Tony!”

 

          He turned to face Pepper, whose expression was verging on grim. “I need you to tell me that what Wanda is implying is not true.”

 

          “I just _met_ the boy this morning!” Tony shouted. He could either look at the screen and what was on it or at Pepper’s doubtful face. He chose to look at Pepper. “Fucking hell, Pep. Do you really think I would jump a _minor_ I just met?”

 

          The precisely three seconds it took for Pepper to say “No, I don’t” told Tony the truth of what she was thinking.

 

          “Peter helped me out when I slipped, I showed him around, and that’s it,” Tony said through gritted teeth.

 

          Pepper’s eyes flicked to the image of his hand on Peter’s ass. #CHEAPCUTIE screamed in Tony’s ears like a nail being scraped on a blackboard.

 

          “When _he_ fell over, I helped _him_ and I was _brushing sand_ off of him,” Tony yelled, exasperated, and knowing how lame that sounded. Of course, no one was going to believe him. He was Tony Stark, philanderer.

 

          “Do you think you’ll see this… _Peter_ again?”

 

 _I hope so_ , Tony thought. “Don’t think so. I don’t routinely hang out with high-schoolers.”

 

          “Good, hopefully if he stays under the radar this will blow over after a few days,” Pepper said. Then she paused to wet her lips. “Tony, I’m asking you these questions because it’s for the company.”

 

          He wanted to tell her he knew. That he knew she was looking out for him as much as she was looking out for the company the two of them built. One side of him felt ashamed for everything he did to Pepper, it told him he didn’t deserve her compassion after what he’d done. But the petty, vindictive, resentful side of him made him just walk over to the door. “Anything else, Pep? I have an announcement to make.”

 

          “We need to help this blow over. Distract people. Maybe hint at one of the projects you’re developing, like that holograph table you’ve been working on forever.”

 

          “I’ve been working on it forever and it’s still not even halfway decent yet.” Tony pulled open the door and felt the heat waft over him. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

 

          “Tony? Is this boy someone I should be worried about?”

 

          “He’s just a nice kid. That’s all.” He began to walk away, fast as he could manage with his ankle and cane, towards the back entrance of the gazebo. A sizeable crowd of employees and fair-goers were already waiting for him.

 

          But Tony didn’t walk fast enough to miss hearing Pepper’s quiet voice. It held echoes of her hurt, anguish and resignation from the night he had told her about his affair.

 

          “That’s what you said about Rogers, too.” 

 

 

*******************

 

 

_June 4, 2017, 12:31 pm, ante-mortem_

 

          “Would that _distract_ them enough?” Tony smirked at Pepper as he exited the gazebo. The noise of applause and the audience was less in the back, where Pepper was waiting for him. Her expression was less than pleased.

 

          “Have you gone insane?” she hissed, “I said _hint_ at a new project, not announce something we cannot deliver!”

          

          Tony shrugged and slipped his sunglasses on. “Look, it was a cakewalk to make the first one. I don’t see what you’re worried about.”

 

          Pepper let out a groan of exasperation. “We are not ready to manufacture our own smartphone! We’ll need hundreds, _thousands_ , of new employees, our own factory, not to mention the problems with the software-”

 

          “Hey! This one works fine!” Tony slipped out his phone, the only one of its kind for now.

 

          Pepper glared at him. “The only reason that demonstration of yours was so impressive was because of JARVIS. And we can’t give just anybody who buys our phone an AI that powerful.”

 

          Tony flinched. She was right. JARVIS’ capabilities were well beyond what could be considered normal for a smartphone and he had used that fact to wow the crowd. Not to mention that the damage a public copy of JARVIS could do would certainly land Tony in federal prison.

 

          “Okay, okay, hear me out,” he said raising his hand that wasn’t holding his cane, “We do a limited run, maybe a thousand prototypes. That number could be manufactured in-house. We give them out to possible investors and maybe a raffle draw for some regular schmucks. Generate interest, both from corporate sponsors and the public.”

 

          “Which buys us the time to acquire the assets needed for mass manufacturing,” Pepper said, already nodding. “That doesn’t answer the JARVIS question. Those people will be expecting something like him, at least.”

 

          “I’ll make a sort of dumber JARVIS, then.” Tony knew the coding would be difficult. He had a tendency to go overboard and overdesign. Developing JARVIS as he was now had taken years. Making even a simplified version on his own would take forever. He needed other programmers – ones he could trust, and talented, and young enough to think of new ideas on the fly.

 

          The two of them began walking back to the support structure, since Happy wasn’t going to pick them up for another half-hour. Pepper’s three phones were already buzzing and ringing nonstop. She gave him an annoyed, but satisfied, look before answering one of them and texting on another. Which left her with no free hand to open the door into the support structure. Pepper nudged her head towards the door, looking at Tony meaningfully.

 

          “One of these,” Tony mouthed at Pepper, wagging his phone in front of her, “would do the work of all three of those.”

 

          And then Tony was being hauled backwards by the collar of his jacket. His cane and sunglasses were sent flying. He was slammed against the wall of the structure, the back of his head connecting with it with a dull metallic noise. It echoed Tony’s head, along with the pain. He heard Pepper shout, followed by the sound of one of her phones clattering to the ground.

 

          Hands grabbed the lapels of the jacket and pinned Tony to the wall. He knew those hands, knew the way they tightened on something he was wearing. The cologne that smelled like it came from a bottle with a ship on it.

 

          “Hey, Steve.”

 

          Under the noon sun, Steve Rogers looked like an avenging angel, the sunlight making his blonde hair glow like a halo. But his blue eyes were cold with fury. His fists tightened and Tony heard some part of his jacket rip.

 

          “You sick bastard.” Steve’s voice was deadly quiet. It reminded Tony that the man holding him had killed people. “Peter hasn’t even been here a _month_. He’s a _kid,_ Stark. A _kid_.”

 

          “So sweet that you’re concerned, Rogers.” It was hard to sound unflustered, given that his heart was hammering in his chest, but Tony managed. “Did you want a piece of him? Didn’t know that you liked ‘em that young.”

 

          Steve growled and Tony felt himself being hoisted up. He had forgotten how easy it was for Steve to manhandle him. Tony knew he should shut up, but he kept speaking anyway.

 

          “I thought you liked middle-aged men best. Daddy issues and all that.”

 

          He winked at Steve. 

 

          “You used to call me that, remember? _Daddy._ When you were begging me to fuck you?”

 

          “ _You son of a bitch!_ ”

 

          Tony closed his eyes, hearing Steve pull back his arm. Felt his jacket tear some more as Steve maintained his grip on it one handed. Heard the air whoosh as the fist –

 

          “Steve. Stop.”

 

          Pepper’s voice was not pitched loudly. It held no threat, no emotion at all.

 

          But Steve heeded it. His fist never connected with Tony’s face.

 

          “Please let go of Tony.”

 

          And just like that, Tony hit the ground for the third time that day. The scrapes on his knee, which had just began to scab, broke open. Luckily, he managed not to fall on his rolled ankle.

 

          “If this is about the photo, I already reported it, and called some people. It’s going to be taken down. And Steve, it was not what it looked like.” Tony heard the click of Pepper’s heels on the concrete as she approached them. “Peter fell, got sand on him and Tony brushed it off. It was just unlucky that Wanda took a photo of that moment.”

 

          “How do you know this?” Steve’s voice was strained. Tony still didn’t open his eyes but he leaned against the wall, feeling his knee throb.

 

          “Because I was there.”

 

          Silence from Steve.

 

          “Why would I lie?” There was a hint of a challenge in Pepper’s voice.

 

          Steve exhaled, slowly. “If he comes near that boy, Miss Potts, I swear –”

 

          “Duly noted, Steve. Please go.”

 

          Tony just sat there, his eyes closed, listening to Steve’s footsteps fade away.

 

          “Get up, Tony.” He opened his eyes. Pepper was standing over him, holding her phones in one hand. One of them had a large crack on its screen. Aside from two spots of color high on her freckled cheeks, no one would have known she had just barely stopped a thrashing.

 

          Tony picked up his cane, which was now a little scuffed, and looked around for his sunglasses. He saw them, but they had cracked from their second drop. He sighed and, with a burst of pain from his knee and ankle, stood up.

 

          “Thanks for –”

 

          The flat of Pepper’s hand hit his cheek so hard, he saw spots. His ear rang from the impact. Tony very nearly fell again. He looked at her, spots still dancing in his vision, bewildered.

 

          “How _dare_ you, Tony?” Her hand was trembling. Whether from the pain from the slap or from anger, he didn’t know. “And in front of me? Don’t you think you’ve done enough to Rogers? To both of us?”

 

          Of the guilt, the anger, and the resentment that flared inside him, it was the last one that wanted to burn Tony from the inside out. It was amazing Tony didn’t spontaneously combust there and then.

 

          “Did you really call someone to take down the photo?” His jaw ached but he resisted the urge to rub it. Not in front of Pepper.

 

          “Yes.”

 

          Instead of massaging his cheek, Tony stuffed his free hand into his pocket. “Thanks for that. And for stopping Steve.”

 

          “I didn’t do it for you. If word got out that Rogers beat you up after that photo, Peter is never going to walk away from today unnoticed. He’ll be that hashtag forever.”

 

          Pepper opened the door to the support structure and stepped inside. Her eyes shone. “Get an Uber and go home, Tony. You’re a mess.” The door closed and the lock clicked.

 

           Her last words stung Tony the most. He _was_ a mess, and everyone who came near him got dragged into the miasma that was Tony Stark. It didn’t matter how hard Tony tried to protect them or do right by them. They all suffered for being close to him.

 

          Rhodey.

 

          Pepper.

 

          Steve.

 

          And now Peter.

 

          Tony went home, where the only person he could ruin was himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of, my dear readers (however few you are): I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SUPER LATE. I had to take a week off of writing to be a Dungeon Master, haha. I hope this chapter makes up for it tho. As usual, a shout out to my editor for suffering through me and this work. And of course, to you my readers. Love ya guys so much. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated :)


	7. No Sleep In Heaven or Bethlehem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter tackles mental turmoil and instability. Please, if you are affected by such things, I advise you to read no further.

 

_November 1, 2017, 2:51 pm, post-mortem_

           “Thank you for coming,” Natasha began, pen poised over paper, “you must be very busy.”

 

           Michelle Jones just shrugged. Her wildly curling hair was tied back into a messy tail, exposing her face. The dark smudges under her eyes told Natasha she hadn’t slept yet, and the redness of her eyes indicated tears. Her lips were cracked from nibbling at them in worry.

 

           “They canceled school today,” Michelle replied, “and besides, the only thing I have on Wednesday afternoon is decathlon training.”

 

_Captain of Academic Decathlon Team_ , Natasha’s notes had told her.

 

_3.9 GPA,_ was another of her notes. Michelle was a smart student, but if the rest of what Natasha had written down was true, the girl could be a _brilliant_ criminal.

 

           Michelle Jones was _suspected_ of hacking into the school’s network to extract test answer sheets. _Suspected_ of selling said answer sheets to her less intelligent peers. She was also _suspected_ to be writing academic papers for AP English students, and to have _supposedly_ installed a backdoor to the firewall that prevented students from using the school Wi-Fi for non-academic purposes.

 

           The list of her alleged infractions against the school was long, and not one of them could be well and truly pinned on her. Michelle covered her tracks too well and was too valuable to the school’s lowlifes to be so easily betrayed. For the most part, Natasha was unconcerned by the list. Only one item made her look at the girl warily.

 

           Michelle Jones was also suspected to be the school’s top supplier of marijuana and other party drugs. But like the other allegations, there was no hard evidence to back it up. Her nickname, only used by her “friends,” was indicative but not damning enough.

 

           So maybe the redness of her eyes was not entirely from crying.

 

           The girl remained quiet, waiting for Natasha to ask her questions. Michelle was not one to volunteer any information willingly. And she was much too bright to fill the silence with idle talk.

 

           But she knew something. Natasha could detect guilt in Michelle’s eyes, and the way she stared at her hands. Hands which she held very still, to stop them from fidgeting. But guilty of what, exactly? There was only one person in the whole case Michelle was connected to. With whom she had connected _with_.

 

           Natasha asked the first, if not the most important, question. “How did you meet Peter Parker?”

 

           Michelle looked up, and a small smile played on her chapped lips.

 

           “He saw me from his window. He waved hello, I gave him the finger,” she said.

 

           Natasha raised an eyebrow. “That’s…quite an unusual way to start a friendship.”

 

           The reply was only another shrug. Michelle nibbled her lips. “He’s...he’s still at the teaching hospital, isn’t he? He hasn’t been moved?”

 

           Natasha nodded. “He’s still there.”

 

           “Can I...can I see him?” The guilt was there. In her voice. In her eyes. She blamed herself for something. But again, for what?

 

           “After we’re done here, Miss Jones.”

 

           Michelle stopped worrying her lips and sat up straighter. “What else do you want to know?”

 

 

*******************

 

_June 4, 2017, 9:57 pm, ante-mortem_

 

 

           Steve finished vacuuming his apartment for the third time that night. He still thought it wasn’t enough, but his ears were beginning to hurt from the roar. Cleaning the entire apartment three times had taken just as many hours, and his stomach grumbled. He had neglected to eat dinner.

 

           The apartment was just four rooms: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and dining area, plus a living room. Steve had vacuumed every corner, dusted and wiped every surface and had changed all the linens and curtains. He had even swept the tiny balcony that was home to his little tray of succulents, the only living things he felt qualified enough to take care of. Until tomorrow.

 

           It still didn’t feel as if he’d done a thorough enough job. Steve decided it was because he hadn’t turned over the couch cushions and changed the cases of the throw pillows. Yes, that was it. Who knew what dirt hid under the couch cushions?

 

_This is because Bucky’s moving in tomorrow_ , Steve told himself as he flipped the cushions. Everything needed to be clean for Bucky. He would have gladly given up his room, but it faced east and was much too brightly lit most of the day to suit Bucky’s needs.

 

           He had made the offer when he had returned that noon. Nakia and the others had tried to talk to him about where he had gone, but Steve had concentrated instead on Bucky.

 

           Bucky, who had no idea why the others had all been so worried about where Steve had been. Who had only frowned a little when Steve had asked him if he wanted to move in. Who had said _“Sure, that’ll be great,”_ while eyeing Okoye and the others.

 

           Steve had pretended not to notice that Nakia was inspecting his knuckles for bruises. Or the way Sam had been glaring at him. 

 

           “This is because Bucky’s moving in tomorrow,” he repeated out loud _._ Judging by the growing pile of gum wrappers, crumpled up receipts, and other tiny pieces of litter, he had not cleaned his couch in ages. Maybe not since he moved in.

 

           Bucky was who Steve tried to think about. He needed to focus on Bucky, who needed his help, and not on…

 

           “Not _him_ ,” Steve growled. He had to focus on making this place presentable and habitable. He flipped the last cushion. The torn corner of a magazine page fluttered up. Steve caught it in one hand and looked down at something that glimmered dully in the recesses of the couch.

 

           It was only a shiny piece of red foil. Just the torn corner of a condom wrapper. But Steve had not had sex since…

 

           And just like that, all Steve could think about was _him_.

 

           Tony. How many times had they lay on this couch, spending afternoons whispering to one another? How many times had they collapsed on it, tearing at each other’s clothing, too eager and too greedy to even stumble into the bedroom? How many times had Tony told him he was lucky to find Steve?

 

           Steve did not know.

 

           But he also did not know how many times had Tony lied to him, right there on the couch. Neither did he know how many times Tony made him an accomplice to his adultery. Or how many times he had been played for a fool, preyed upon because he thought he had found someone who…

 

           Someone who…

 

           Steve snatched the small sliver of foil and crushed it into a ball along with the other trash.

 

           No. Tony was not that someone. Instead, Tony had made him feel filthy. Tony liked nothing better than dragging innocent people to his level, to his dirt. Tony felt alone in his misery, so he needed pull others down with him.

 

           Like how he had pulled Steve down into his filth. And like how he had already begun to pull Peter. Steve’s stomach churned, but it wasn’t from hunger.

 

           Steve threw the ball of litter into a wastebasket. He needed to focus. To clean. He stripped the cushions and the throw pillows of their casings. He was going to wash them, then defrost the refrigerator and scrub that clean too. Now that Steve was focusing, he thought that maybe he hadn’t done a good enough job scouring the shower stall. Yes, he definitely needed to go over the bathroom once more.

 

           With a deep breath to calm himself, Steve picked up the pillow casings and headed for the laundry room in the basement.

 

           His mother had often told him there was no rest for the wicked. Steve hoped that that was true, because the likes of Tony Stark did not deserve to rest. But if the wicked did not rest, neither could the good.

 

 

*******************

 

_June 4, 2017, 10:17 pm, ante-mortem_

 

 

           He was _not_ going to drink. Tony looked down at the half-empty glass of gin he was holding. The ice made a pleasing tinkling noise when he shook the glass. Well, he was not going to drink _again_. He glanced around and saw the empty bottle by his feet.

 

           Tony downed the rest of the drink and sat heavily on the floor. He was in the lounge room of his house, with its curving floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the waves as they crashed on a stony shore. JARVIS had set the lights to their dimmest setting and everything in the room, from the massive glass shelf with Tony’s liquor to the sleek barstools he couldn’t clamber on because of his fucked up ankle, were only the barest of outlines in the dark.

 

           He had fallen asleep still fully dressed when he had gotten home that noon. Tony would have welcomed sleeping through the day and maybe even into the small hours of the night, but the glare of the setting sun had woken him up. He had been so tired and angry and ashamed that he had forgotten to tell JARVIS to lower the blinds.

 

           Tony couldn’t go back to sleep, try as he might, and he didn’t feel like going down to his workshop. He had wandered through the house, though in truth the word “mansion” was more appropriate. He had flitted from room to room, checking on JARVIS’ sensors, the security feeds, occasionally rearranging trinkets and knickknacks. He had not realized how many paintings and prints Pepper had taken with her until that afternoon, looking at the empty spaces they used to occupy.

 

           Eventually, he had made his way to the lounge room. He avoided going there, because there really was only one thing for him to do once he got there. Tony had walked in, tried and failed to get up on a stool, and had adamantly not drank anything. He just watched the sun slip further and further down into the sea. Only when it had finally disappeared below the surface did he amble to the bar and pour himself a drink.

           

           Even through the walls and the glass panels of the house, Tony could hear the relentless crash of the waves. But the sound was dulled by the distance and by interference. A shame, because Tony wanted to drown out the words from Wanda’s post and snatches of voices in his head: Pepper, Steve, and Peter.

 

_How can I help?_

 

_We just got divorced._

 

_If he comes near that boy..._

 

_Mr Stark_

 

           Tony brought the glass to his lips before remembering that it was empty. The equally hollow bottle mocked him.

 

_Is this boy someone I should be worried about?_

 

_He’s a kid, Stark._

 

_cheapcutie_

 

_Thank you, Mr Stark!_

 

_…he crept into my waiting arms…_

 

           Tony buried his head in his arms until there no light at all. But there were still the voices, the words, echoing in his memory.

 

_How dare you, Tony?_

 

_Sure thing, Mr Stark_

 

_…for all the world, like the…_

 

_CHEAPCUTIE_

 

           Tony stood up suddenly, welcoming the piercing clatter of the decanter as it rolled away from him. He ambled to the bar, welcoming the dull throb of his ankle, wishing that the pain was as bad as it had been that morning.

 

_You son of a bitch!_

 

_That was awesome_

 

_You sick bastard!_

 

_CHEAPCUTIE_

 

           Tony rounded the bar and snatched up a bottle. Without looking, without thinking, he twisted the cap off, and drank. Drank until his throat burned, until his stomach protested and writhed. When he finally stopped, his head was spinning, and his vision was dancing. Yes, yes, Tony was going to enjoy the darkness of passing out. Tony sighed in relief. The memories were already slipping away, drowned out by…by what exactly? What had he drank?

 

           Tony squinted at the bottle, but it was too dark to see. Gripping a nearby stool for balance, he brought the bottle to a small yellow lighting strip. It illuminated the liquid contents of the bottle.

 

           It was whiskey. Intoxicating, heady, and amber.

 

_…his tender, mysterious, impure, indifferent, twilight eyes…_

 

           And just like that, all Tony could think about was Peter.

 

_Peter, eyes darting and dancing, wanting to crawl under his car to get his sunglasses._

 

_Peter, eyes dark and troubled, as he looked out at the ocean._

 

_Peter, eyes nearly hidden by his lashes, as he lifted the hem of his shirt, exposing his slender waist._

 

_Peter, eyes like whiskey in the sunlight, as he smiled at Tony._

 

           And laced through these images, like poison in a drink, two words.

 

_…cheap cutie…_

 

           Tony set the bottle down on the bar, turned away, and vomited. Vomited until it felt as if he was as empty as the bottle of gin, and then vomited some more. When there was nothing left to heave out, Tony wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood.

 

           He snatched the bottle of whiskey and made his way to the huge windows. Tony Stark lay down near them, one ear pressed to the marble floor. The crash of the waves was trebled through the floor, and their noise and percussion drowned out the words, the voices, the images.

 

           Their noise drowned out the world.

 

           Tony brought the bottle to his lips and drank, not deeply, but slowly siphoning the warm liquid. His stomach quailed, but he forced himself to sip it. He closed his eyes, waiting.

 

           Waiting for the whiskey to take him to sleep.

 

           But sleep did not come for Tony Stark. But at least there was only the dull, thumping roar of the ocean in his ears. And only darkness in his mind’s eye. A darkness only occasionally lit by brief flashes of eyes the color of whiskey.

            

 

*******************

 

_June 4, 2017, 11:08 pm, ante-mortem_

 

 

           “You brought up Ben today.”

 

           May’s voice made Peter sit up in his bed. For the last hour, he had just been staring at the ceiling, the light in his small room turned on. His aunt was leaning against his doorframe, her eyes worried behind her glasses.

 

           “Yeah?” It was all Peter could think of saying, a tightness already forming in his chest.

 

           She crossed the room, not a very long walk, frowning at the few boxes Peter had yet to unpack. She sat down on the only chair, the one by his already cluttered desk. May had to knock a pile of his dirty shirts off of it to sit. She pursed her lips but said nothing for a few moments.

 

           “You haven’t talked about him since…since last year.”

 

           Peter shrugged, not looking at May. From the corner of his eye, he saw May reach out, maybe to touch his leg. He drew his knees up, pulling away from her. She only sighed, and sat back on the chair.

 

           “Peter, I’m worried about you,” she said, her voice soft and low, “I want you to talk to someone about…about Ben. About that night. About what happened to you. Everything.”

 

           The more May spoke, the tighter Peter’s chest felt. He didn’t want to think about Ben. He didn’t want to think about that night or what happened, much less talk about it. Peter was sure she would only worry more if he did. If she knew exactly what he felt, what he was thinking, what made his heart beat so loud and so fast it felt like it was going rip its way out of him, she would only worry all the more.

 

           “I want you to see a specialist, Dr Bruce Banner. He’s one of the best psychotherapists in the country.”

 

           Peter looked up, alarmed. May flinched at his expression. “I’m not going crazy,” he whispered, horrified.

 

           “I don’t think you are, Peter,” she said, hurriedly, “But it’s…I just…” May sighed and brought a hand to her mouth. “I know you don’t sleep well, and that you have nightmares. I can hear you crying at night. I haven’t heard you laugh like you did today in months. You used to laugh all the time.” She paused to wipe at her eyes, a few tears leaking.

 

           “I don’t think you’re crazy,” she continued, “But I know you’re far from okay.”

 

           Peter already knew that. But that didn’t mean he needed to be examined and interrogated. He’d had enough of that during the pointless investigation. He turned away from May and faced the wall, biting back his words.

 

           She stood up, breathing a little heavily. “Dr Banner is one of the reasons I moved us here, Peter. He’s very good, and he does work with people who’ve gone through similar…events like yours.” He heard her walk back to his door and begin closing it.

 

           “I’ve only made one appointment with him for you, on Wednesday,” she said. “Please, just see him, and if you don’t think he can help, I won’t bring it up again.” May waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she closed his door.

 

           But not before she flicked the light switch off.

 

           The small room was immediately plunged into darkness, only a hint of streetlights filtering through his one window.

 

           And just like that, Peter was in that night, with Ben. With _him_.

 

           Peter felt the scream try to claw its way out of his throat. He felt the roar of blood as his pulse suddenly skyrocketed. His hands suddenly turned to claws, gripping his knees so tight he felt like his knuckles would snap.

 

           The suffocating darkness was everywhere.

 

           The dark. _The_ dark.

 

           Peter was back there, back in the dark of the closet in their apartment in Queens.

 

           He needed to move. He needed to move now, just like he needed to move back _then_.

 

           He needed to shout, to scream. But Ben told him not to, his eyes had been pleading then, trying to blink away the blood.

 

_He_ had told him not to. _He_ who had the knife, that awful jagged, black knife.

 

_He_ who had been in the darkness, in the shadows, back then.

 

           Was _he_ in the darkness, in the shadows, _now?_

 

           The smallest whimper escaped Peter’s tightly pressed lips. The dark was everywhere – in the corners of the room, under the desk, under his bed, and directly over him.

 

           Was _he_ hiding in one of them?

 

_Shhhh_

 

_The knife, the jagged black knife._

 

_The blood black in the night_

 

_Ben_

 

_Shhhh_

 

_The stuffy air of the closet_

 

_“Be good, Peter, please”_

 

_Ben’s blood_

 

_Shhhh_

 

_The dark reaching into him, into his mouth and eyes_

 

_Shhhh_

 

_The pain_

 

_The dark_

 

_B_ _en’s blood black in the night on the jagged black knife_

 

            Peter leapt from the bed, small, pitiful whimpering sounds leaking from his mouth as he tore across the room. He slipped and skidded on a discarded shirt, and his elbow struck a bedpost. Peter looked back at his leg, and saw that it had slid under his bed and into the deeper shadows that lurked there.

 

_He_ was in the shadows, and _he_ was going to pull Peter in, and _he_ had the knife, still wet with Ben’s blood.

 

           Peter let out a lone, terrified sob before jerking his foot away, and crawling backwards to his door, and the light switch beside it.

 

           There was too much darkness, it was everywhere, and so was _he_.

 

           Peter could hear the quiet noises he was making in his throat, could feel the pain of his elbow, but still he crawled backwards. His back hit the door and he shot up, taking a huge risk by turning away from the shadows. He saw the shape of the light switch and Peter thrust his hand up.

 

_Shhhh_

 

           He was going to scream. He knew it. His hand wasn’t fast enough. He could hear the hiss of the knife. The drip of the blood.

 

           Peter’s hand hit the switch, the small bulb exploded into light. The dark was gone. He was back in the _now_. He was only in a slightly cramped bedroom. The corners held nothing but dust and wallpaper. The ceiling was just a ceiling. And there was nothing under the bed but boxes, books and his shoes.

 

           He was still breathing hard, his heart was still beating painfully fast, and he was covered in cold sweat. But the dark was gone. That was all that mattered. _The dark was gone_.

 

           Peter cried into his hands, with relief, with shame. He sobbed into his arms to muffle the noise, his entire body shaking. He had not been able to sleep with the light off since that night. He had to keep his room lit, brightly lit, at night to make sure there were no deep shadows, no cloying darkness. Like a toddler. Like a child. Like a _kid_.

 

           The air in his room was suddenly too stuffy, too warm. His face still wet with tears, Peter walked over to the window and heaved the glass pane upwards. Cool, crisp, night air rushed inside, and the glow of the neighboring houses and streetlights made Peter feel much better. He inhaled deeply, willing himself to calm down.

 

           An unusual, organic yet smoky smell made him look around. He saw that his window faced the balcony of the house next door. A girl his age, with hair in wild curls and ringlets, was leaning on the balcony’s railings, smoking a rumpled looking cigarette. It didn’t smell like any cigarette Peter had ever smelled before, though. Not that he had hung around smokers a lot.

 

           The girl saw him but her face remained impassive. She took a long drag of the cigarette, held the smoke in her lungs for a while before expelling a plume of the strange smelling smoke.

 

           Peter waved, forcing a small, awkward smile he didn’t feel on his face.

 

           The girl grinned, extended a hand and flipped him off. She took a final drag and stubbed the cigarette out on the metal railing. Instead of throwing away the stub, she carefully dropped it into a drainpipe that fed directly into the sewers. And then she was gone.

 

           Peter stepped back, away from the window and sat down on his bed. He looked at his clock and saw that it was only a quarter past eleven. He closed his eyes, comforted by the way the light of the bulb still glowed through his eyelids.

 

           Sleep would come late tonight, as it had every night for the past year. Sleep was the only kind of darkness Peter could trust; the only kind of darkness Peter felt he could wake up from.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Mamma Who Bore Me" from the musical Spring Awakening. Im here to say that the next two chapters will probs take a long time before I even pass them to my editor. But for those of you who have persevered so far, congratulations! You've finished the first part of this long-ass fic! Lots of love to all my readers! As usual, kudos and comments are much appreciated!


	8. Unfelt Desire; Unheard Scream; Unknown Variables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO MY DEAR READERS! First of all, I'm sorry this took so long to upload, but hotdamn its 8k words. My editor was at his wits end. I hope you all enjoy this, and Season's Greetings to you all!

_November 1, 2017, 4:02 pm, post-mortem_

          Murders did not simply occur. Even the most seemingly senseless homicides had a story. Murder was never simple, especially the stories behind one.

 

          Natasha was beginning to see just how complex the story of her case was. She had filled a notebook with all the information Michelle Jones had given her. While undoubtedly vital, Michelle had provided her only a part of the story. An important part, but just one of many she needed to weave it all together.

 

          The pattern was only beginning to emerge. She needed more sources of information. The five most critical to her case she would save for last. Better to confront them with a mostly woven web rather than a handful of threads. All the better to catch them with.

 

          Her watch told her it was a couple of minutes past four. Enough time for one more interview, though Natasha’s body was screaming for some real rest. She walked over to the one-way glass and signalled Fury to send the next person in.

 

          Peter Parker was now at the heart of the web; that was beyond doubt given his condition and Michelle Jones’ information. Natasha would have liked to talk to his aunt, but May Parker was not in a state to be cross-examined.

 

          Natasha, therefor, was going to pull at another thread in this case. One just as important as Peter.

 

          It suddenly occurred to the detective that Fury had not responded to her signal. Puzzled, Natasha strode to the door and looked out into the corridor. The row of uncomfortable seats meant for those awaiting their turn was empty.

 

          There was the faintest hint of perfume in the air. Natasha inhaled deeply and considered the scent. X, by Clive Christian. Expensive, classy, and used by only one woman she knew.

 

          The door at the far end of the corridor opened and Fury walked in, expression unreadable.

 

          “Miss Potts just left, hasn’t she?”

 

          Fury’s eyes narrowed at her question. “Yeah,” he replied, “said they’re busy over at Stark Tech. Doing damage control and assessing their security.”

 

          Natasha had assumed as much, but Pepper Potts’ abrupt departure felt too much like an evasion. The woman had already waited for an hour; knowing Potts, she would have declined the interview if the company really needed her.

 

          Pepper Potts was hiding something. By the way Fury was looking, he thought so too.

 

          “Do we already have a warrant for the security footage over at Stark’s?” After what Michelle Jones had said, Natasha was sure whatever led to the murder had begun there.

 

          “We’ll get it tomorrow. Hill really wants this solved as soon as possible,” Fury responded. “Don’t worry, she’s not going to delete any footage of last night,” he continued, “That would be too damn stupid, and Potts is the farthest thing from. She knows that doing that will only make things worse in the long run.” Then Fury smiled, a little smugly. “Besides, we have ways to recover deleted footage.”

 

          Natasha shook her head. “It’s not last night’s footage I’m worried about.”

 

          Fury cocked an eyebrow. “You think something else is going on there?”

 

          “Pepper Potts only looks out for two people,” Natasha muttered, walking back to the interrogation room. She began to collect the files and tidy up. “Herself, and Stark. We should also get a warrant for footage at Stark’s house. He spends more time in his workshop over there than at the office.”

 

          Fury plucked a sheet out of her hands. It was Tony Stark’s rap sheet. Well, one of many. The one he was holding was from NYPD. There were seventeen others from police departments all over the country, and at least three from overseas.

 

          The photograph of Stark attached to it showed him smiling widely at the camera, one eye swollen shut, and with a cut on his brow. He was 28 in the photo, and Natasha had to admit he was a looker.

 

          She pulled out another photograph, this time from 2007. It showed Tony, urinating on the curb by the front doors of some club in Los Angeles. It had been taken by some paparazzi, who had somehow recognized Tony from his _much_ wilder days during the 90s. The shot would have shown his penis, if not for the woman who had stripped her shirt off to shield it from view. The photograph was of the first time Pepper and Tony had met.

 

          Natasha shook her head. “Potts was always looking out for him. Protecting him.” She looked up as she put the rap sheet and the photo back in the folder. The room was clean, all the files were put away.

 

          Nick led the way to the door and flicked the light switch off. “Who is she protecting now? Herself or him?”

 

          Natasha did not know at the moment. But she was going to find out, one way or another.

 

*******************

 

_June 5, 2017, 12:31 am, ante-mortem_

 

          Steve tried to concentrate on eating his sandwich but anxiousness made him put it back down in its container. He was sitting by the side entrance of Triskelion, under the shade of a small tree. It was his preferred spot to eat and think alone when he wanted some space. Bucky was alone in Steve’s apartment, having moved out of the transitional house. He hadn’t really been doing very well at the house, anyway, shunning and being shunned by the other residences.

 

          And Steve was eating a stupid sandwich instead of being there for him.

 

          Bucky had been dropped off by Sam that morning, all his stuff in one box and a backpack. Steve had wanted to stay behind and help him unpack, but Sam had also been waiting to drive the both of them to work. He had left Bucky with an “ _Everything’s clean and uh, fridge has food._ ” Bucky had smiled at him, eyes hidden by the sunglasses, and waved him off.

 

          Steve had just resolved to tell Okoye that he was going home early when a large hand slapped him in the back. The force nearly knocked him to the ground.

 

          “You gonna finish that?” Thor Odinson sat down heavily beside Steve, already picking up the barely-touched sandwich. The massive man was in all-silver compression workout clothes, with vibrantly red sweatbands at his wrist and holding back his hair. In direct sunlight, Thor would have shone like a disco ball.

 

          “No, help yourself,” Steve chuckled, as Thor ate half of the sandwich with one bite and grinned happily.

 

          “What are you worrying about?” Thor rumbled, quirking an eyebrow at Steve.

 

          For a moment, Steve hesitated. Thor was a loyal client of Triskelion, despite being well-off enough to buy his own gym equipment. Steve considered him more of a close acquaintance and occasional drinking buddy than an actual friend, though.

 

          But the way Nakia and the others looked at him whenever he talked about Bucky…it was like they knew what he was feeling. What he was afraid of feeling. Steve thought they felt sorry for him. Maybe Thor would actually have some insight instead of an embarrassing form of pity.

 

          So he told Thor about Bucky. Not everything, of course. Not the incident that had injured him, and certainly not what Steve was feeling for him. But he recounted how he had met Bucky, his urge to help the man, and the circumstances that led to Steve opening his home to him. Thor just nodded sagely as he listened, like a patient guidance councillor in shimmering silver.

 

          “Okay, but,” Thor said when Steve was done, “you still haven’t told me what you’re worried about.”

 

          “I…I don’t know, okay?” Steve sighed, “A lot of things. I’m worried that he might hurt himself while I’m not there. I’m worried that he might need something and who’s gonna help him? I’m worried that…that I’m not enough to help him with what he’s gone through.With what he’s still going through.” He held his head in his hands. “I don’t want to hurt him or to get hurt.”

 

          “Look,” said Thor as he stood up, “the first thing you need to understand is that no one likes being treated like they’re toddlers. Not even toddlers.” He offered Steve a hand and pulled him up as well. “It’s fine that you’re concerned about this Bucky, but he’s a grown man, Steve. He won’t appreciate you coddling him like he’s five.”

 

          “I _know_ that,” Steve huffed, irritated, “but I can’t help it.”

 

          Thor tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes. “This isn’t about him, I think.”

 

          “What do you mean?” Steve crouched to pick up the empty food container. Thor had a bemused expression on his face.

 

          “Nah, this isn’t about Bucky at all. This is about Tony,” the other man said, shaking his head a little.

 

          At the mention of that name, Steve clenched his jaw. The box crumpled in his hand. “It’s _not_ about him,” he growled. He walked back to the entrance, tossing the destroyed box in a trashcan by the door.

 

          “I don’t know how, but it is!” Thor called, still standing under the tree.

 

          “You’re wrong,” Steve shouted back, entering the gym, “Just like you’re wrong about that outfit.” Whatever Thor was going to say in response was cut off by the door swinging shut. Steve did not go home early, but he did spend the entire afternoon purposely overworking himself. It was easier not to think about Bucky, or what Thor had said, that way.

 

          But Steve still kept checking the clock, marking each minute that passed.

 

******************* 

 

_June 5, 2017, 8:12 pm, ante-mortem_

 

          “Shit! God-fucking-dammit!”

 

          Bucky’s cursing nearly made Steve drop the bag of Chinese takeout he was holding. He was having a hard enough time trying to open his ( _their?_ ) apartment’s door as it was. He finally managed to enter without dropping anything, only to smell burnt bread. Alarmed, Steve rushed to the small kitchen.

 

          Bucky had been making grilled cheese sandwiches. Attempting to, based on what Steve saw. The man was holding his hand under the faucet, while the charred pieces of bread smouldered in a frying pan. The electric stove had already been turned off, Steve noted with relief.

 

          “Hey, what happened?” Steve asked, setting down the food as he approached.

 

          The other man frowned deeply, shaking water from his fingers. He had not taken off his sunglasses, despite the fact that night had fallen. Steve was sure it was because most of the lights in the apartment had been turned on.

 

          “Finger touched the pan,” Bucky said shortly, holding up his hand. A small scarlet blister was already forming on his index finger.

 

          “I’ll get the first aid kit,” Steve offered, walking to the bathroom, “I’ll patch up that finger and –”

 

          “It’s just a blister,” Bucky said, tersely, “Don’t worry about it.”

 

          Steve hesitated before nodding and walking towards the stove. He was about to pick up the pan when Bucky’s hand folded over Steve’s. His hand was slightly cool from the water, but his touch warmed Steve.

 

          “It’s my mess, I’ll clean it up,” was all Bucky said. His eyes were inscrutable behind the tinted lenses, the line of his shoulder tense. But the set of his jaw brooked no argument.

 

          Their hands were still touching. Steve let go of the pan. Bucky’s grip on his hand tightened. His fingers grazed over Steve’s knuckles before releasing his hold.

 

          “I’ll take the food to the living room, then,” Steve murmured, throat dry. Bucky had turned away, tipping the failed sandwich into the trash bin. Alone in the living room, Steve let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

 

          They ate while watching episodes of _Parks and Recreation_ on Steve’s laptop. He was still getting used to Bucky being more active and less anxious. Before, when they ate outside, Bucky unconsciously hunched his posture, as if to make himself a smaller target. He would talk with Steve, but each sentence was an effort for him to say out loud. Bucky’s eyes would dart around looking for threats, and wince at any bright light.

 

          Steve wondered if this was how Bucky had always been, before the loss of his arm. The man _sprawled_ , simple as that. At first, he had shared the couch with Steve, but he eventually moved to the floor, where there was more room. He stretched out his legs and leaned on Steve’s knee, sometimes resting his head on it.

 

          And he talked. And talked. And _talked_. Steve was amazed Bucky had time to eat, much less breathe. He talked about how Ron Swanson reminded him of an old neighbour, about an abandoned lot behind his old apartment, about the time he had spent the night under a hedge in a playground. Small memories, but obviously cherished. Steve tried to listen to it all, but it was just so refreshing to hear him speak. 

 

          Steve knew Bucky was still a long way from a full recovery. Nobody could shake off trauma in a day. _It’s not that_ , Steve thought, _I’m missing something_.

 

          A sharp prod to his stomach jolted him from his thoughts. Bucky had his head on Steve’s knee and was grinning up at him.

 

          “You in there, Steve? You looked like you were a million miles away,” the man chuckled. Steve could see his reflection on the sunglasses, and he did look a little off.

 

          Bucky’s chin was digging into his thigh. He could feel the other man’s breath through the fabric of his pants. Steve felt a flush rising to his face.

 

          “You okay?” Bucky quirked his head to the side, so that his cheek was resting on Steve’s thigh instead. Now the blood wasn’t going to his face.

 

          “Yeah, just tired, I guess.” The lie grated out of Steve’s throat, but Bucky just hummed thoughtfully and leaned back. There was a mischievous smile on his lips. But Steve couldn’t read him properly. Not when his eyes were hidden.

 

          “I’ll clean up,” Steve said, standing up. There was no way to hide the fact that there was a bulge in his pants that he was willing not to grow any further. So he crouched down, picking up his empty takeout containers.

 

          “No!” The vehemence was gone in a second, but Bucky had also stood up as spoke. “I mean,” he said, shrugging, at ease once more, “technically this _is_ my bedroom. I should be the one to tidy it up.” He held out his arm.

 

          They stood there for a second, Steve clutching a couple of slightly greasy cartons, Bucky with his lips pursed a little, lone arm outstretched.

 

          “Steve. Please.”

 

          He handed over the cartons.

 

          Bucky took them, and shuffled a little on his feet. “Go get some sleep, man. I got it from here,” was all he said.

 

          Steve nodded, and headed to his room. He heard Bucky drop the containers, hiss out some profanity, and pick them up again. He stopped by his door.

 

          “Hey!” Steve called, turning around.

 

          Bucky cocked his head at Steve, eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

 

          “Wanna eat out tomorrow?”

 

          The grin grew slowly on Bucky’s face. “You asking me out, Rogers?”

 

          Steve swallowed. _Not yet_ , he thought. “Just figured it’ll be less of a hassle eating with a wait staff around.”

 

          The grin remained, but Bucky’s shoulders slumped just the tiniest bit. “Sure thing. Tell Sam to look for a place that has free breadsticks.”

 

          Steve laughed and said he would make sure of it before closing the door. He placed a hand on his thigh, right where Bucky’s cheek had been.

 

          The way his breath had warmed this thigh…

 

          Hurriedly, Steve unzipped and pulled down his pants, already hard as he pulled his cock through his boxers.

 

          While one hand stroked his cock, Steve kept the other one on that spot on his thigh.

 

          Steve imagined it was another’s calloused hand smearing his precum down his shaft. That it was the warmth of another person’s cheek on his thigh, not his trembling palm. He imagined it was not only his breath that was coming out in stifled, ragged exhales. _So goddamn close,_ Steve thought, panting, _Come on, please…_

 

          He whispered a name under his breath; it came out half a whimper.

 

          Then, Steve stopped. He held his breath. He pressed his ear against the door. No, it couldn’t have been. He was just caught up in the fantasy. But for a moment, Steve had heard someone on the other side of the thin door, breathing nearly as heavily as he was. Surely it wasn’t…

 

 _Did Bucky hear me jacking off? Had he listened? Was he still listening?_ Steve thought. Then another thought came, unbidden: _Did he hear me call out his name?_ Steve had to bite his lips to stop himself from moaning, even as he resumed stroking.

 

          When his orgasm hit him, his knees nearly buckled from just how _good_ it felt to have his warm cum splatter on his palm. _The only thing that could have made it better was…_ He shied away from the thought. Steve closed his hand loosely, to keep the liquid from dripping, and with his free hand hitched up his pants.

 

          Carefully, quietly, Steve opened the door just a crack and peeked. The living room was dark, streetlights filtering dimly through the window. But he could see the outline of Bucky, a silhouette he knew so well, lying on the couch.

 

          So it was just his imagination. There was relief in that. But also, somehow, disappointment.

 

          After he had cleaned up and changed into his sleeping clothes, Steve lay in bed, awake. He was thinking – not just what was different about the man sleeping in his living room, but what it was exactly he missed. His clock informed him that it was eleven before he figured it out.

 

          “I miss seeing your eyes,” Steve whispered, even though the only person who would care couldn’t hear it anyway.

 

*******************

 

_June 7, 2017, 6:17 am, ante-mortem_

 

          Peter was no longer used to waking up before 8 a.m. And so despite his intentions to go for a run in the morning, he had failed to wake up on time on Monday and Tuesday. To make sure it did not happen again, Peter set both his alarm clock and phone to ring at the same time. As a final countermeasure, he asked May to wake him up as well.

 

          Though he had not thought that his aunt’s idea of helping him wake up was to spray ice-cold water on his face. Peter yelped and nearly rolled out of his bed from the chill.

 

          “There. You’re welcome,” May chuckled, her own eyes still heavy with sleep, “I’ll fix up breakfast when you get back. I’m going back to bed.”

 

          Peter hurriedly put on jogging clothes and had set out, pocketing his keys, phone and earphones. He decided to jog to the ocean and, after checking routes on navigational apps, trotted down the street. The sun had not yet burnt away the morning chill, though Peter welcomed the way it made him more awake.

 

          Rubbing his arms, Peter rounded the corner of the street while speeding up to a brisk walk. He was about to put on his earphones when a voice called out.

 

          “Hey, cutie!”

 

 _Well, that’s new_ , Peter thought, _No one’s ever called me a cutie before._

 

          Peter looked around and saw the girl from the balcony, waving at him across the street. She was in a white and yellow cocktail dress, and her hair was even messier than the last time he saw it. What little makeup she had on was a tad smudged, no doubt from a night of partying. In one hand she held a lit cigarette and her heels, in the other a clutch. She made her way to him, wobbling a little even though she was barefoot.

 

          “Uhm, hello?” Peter said, shifting a little on his feet. His nose twitched a little from the smell of her cigarette.

 

          The girl said nothing for a moment, only narrowed her eyes as she looked him up and down. She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled.

 

          “’m Michelle,” the girl said. Peter introduced himself and waited for her to speak. He really didn’t have anything to say to her. So he just watched her watching him, while her cigarette burned down millimetre by millimetre.

 

          “You alright?” Michelle said at last.

 

          “Uh, yeah? I mean, I guess? I – I mean yes,” Peter stammered out, confused, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

          “You were crying last Sunday.”

 

          Peter felt shame first, and then annoyance, and the clash of the two emotions caused him to let out a disjointed set of vowel noises instead of actual words. His face burned.

 

          “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” said Michelle, taking a last drag of her smoke before flicking into the gutter. “It was a really shitty of Wanda to post that photo, and I’d be upset too.”

 

          Peter stopped talking. _Photo? What photo?_ he thought, staring at Michelle. He remembered the weird looks he had started attracting after meeting Wanda. All the sidelong glances and whispers.

 

          Michelle saw the perplexed and very anxious expression on his face.

 

          “Oh shit. You didn’t know about it did you?” She pulled a battered soft pack of cigarettes from her clutch and lit up.

 

          Peter swallowed to ease his suddenly dry throat. “What…uhm...what was in the photo?”

 

          The girl nibbled her lip, unsure. “It’s already been taken down,” she said, dropping her heels to pull out her phone from the clutch, “but a lot of people saw it before that, and you’re kind of a hot topic.”

 

          After a moment of scrawling through her phone, she handed it over to him.

 

          Peter felt sick the moment he saw the photo. Well, the screencap of the photo. He was vaguely aware that Michelle was saying something but he barely heard her over his thoughts. _Did they really think that Mr Stark…that I had seduced him…Jesus, how much trouble is Mr Stark in?_

 

          Feeling his pulse pounding in his ears, he hurriedly shoved the phone back at Michelle. She exclaimed something but Peter was already running away.

 

          He ran, no music in his ears but the drumming of his pulse. Peter had gotten Mr Stark in trouble. If he hadn’t taunted the man, Mr Stark would not have brushed his ass. If he hadn’t been so clumsy and stupid, he wouldn’t have tripped and had gotten sand on it in the first place.

 

 _Everything’s my fault, isn’t it?_ Peter thought, furiously, _That was how it was back then, why would it change simply because I moved across the country?_

 

          The smell of salt on the breeze told him he was close to the ocean. The sound of waves was growing stronger, their pounding matching his pulse.

 

          Peter could feel his breath starting to shorten, and a hot stitch was beginning to burn at his side. He focused on the road in front of him. It curved sharply, sloping steeply and eventually down to the beach. A guardrail was the only thing that was going to prevent a car from hurtling seventy feet down and into the water.

 

          He was maybe two hundred feet away from curve. Peter’s legs, unused to running, were beginning to burn. He pushed himself to run faster.

 

 _Two weeks. Not even that, actually. Two weeks, and I’m already a fucking joke_.

 

          A hundred and fifty feet.

 

_Mr Stark would have seen that photo the same day it was posted. Is that why he had left? Was that why he was so weird when he did? Cause I was a potential scandal?_

 

          A hundred feet. The roar of the waves was getting louder. His legs felt as if they were on fire.

 

          Mr Stark… _Tony,_ had so far been the highlight of his life in Stanley Cove. Peter didn’t want to think about how sad that was. That a man he barely knew, who had shown him only a hint of attraction, was the best thing to have happened to him so far. And now any possibility of anything else with the man was gone. Because of Peter.

 

          Fifty feet.

 

          Peter could see the paint flaking off a little from the guard rail. That a small wildflower was growing beside one of its posts. Much more tantalizing, he could see the blue, blue ocean.

 

          He could jump over the rail. He had enough momentum and speed to go a long way from the bluffs. There would be a couple of seconds of nothing but air rushing around him.

 

          Then the waves would take him. The waves could just wash him away. The waves didn’t care about Peter Parker. They would just smash against him, break him and drown him and spirit him away somewhere else.

 

          Twenty feet.

 

          In his mind’s eye, Peter could see himself vault over the guardrail. His hand would get cut by the metal. He was flying through the air, arms outstretched. He was falling, falling, falling; leaving a fait trail of red blood from his cut hand.

 

          Only a small splash would indicate he had hit the uncaring water.

 

          But…

 

          Ten feet away from the rail, Peter forced his legs to slow down. He nearly skidded and tumbled, and finally crashed against the metal. He lessened impact with his hands, but it was still jarring enough that his legs nearly slid from under him. They kicked a few pebbles over the edge.

 

          Peter’s breath was ragged, his vision was a little blurry, his side and legs burning. He clutched the guardrail with both hands. His heart was pounding fit to burst. 

 

          He just stood there for a few moments, catching his breath. The he screamed as loud as he could, but the sound was snatched by a strong gust and only the apathetic ocean ever heard his pain.

 

*******************

 

_June 7, 2017, 5:02 pm, ante-mortem_

 

          With a groan, Peter slowly lowered himself into a chair. He was in a coffee shop, On Your Bean Ends, with a distinctly nautical feel. It was only a street away from the cove itself and just across the street from Dr Bruce Banner’s office.

 

          Peter ordered hot chocolate, with an extra dusting of cinnamon. He didn’t have any cash on him, but May was going to pick him up. He figured he deserved a cup of something sweet and warm. It had been an exhausting day.

 

          The session with Dr Banner had not been what Peter expected. Dr Banner’s office didn’t even have a couch.

 

          The doctor himself was a friendly, stocky man with thick glasses and wavy black hair that was going heavily grey. He had been polite and kinda funny; Peter had quickly taken a liking to him. Until they had gotten down to business. 

 

          “Your aunt told me that you were present during the death of your uncle,” Dr Banner had said when Peter they had sat in facing recliners. Peter had swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded. Dr Banner had peered at him pleasantly over his square glasses. “You’re understandably uncomfortable about the subject,” Dr Banner continued.

 

          Peter had just snorted and remained quiet.

 

          “I know that seeing me was not your idea,” Dr Banner finally said after a minute of silence, “But Peter, I’m here to help. And I can’t do that if you don’t speak to me.”

 

          Peter had mulled this over and thought of May, who had organized the whole move just for him. He couldn’t let her down. Or make her worry any more than she already was.

 

          “I…I dunno where to…I mean, I don’t.” Peter had taken a deep breath and tried to look directly at Dr Banner, who was sitting opposite him. He found that he couldn’t look at the man’s eyes, so he settled by directing his gaze at the psychotherapist’s chin. “I don’t know how to start.”

 

          “What happened that night?” Dr Banner had said, gently.

 

          Peter had told him. As much as he could. When he was done, Dr Banner had offered him a packet of tissues to wipe his face with.

 

          “Talking about traumatic events hurt,” the doctor had said, “But coming to grips that they happened, and that we survived them and can grow past them, is essential to recovery.”

 

          He had smiled at Peter. “You did great today.”

 

          The simple praise had made Peter somehow…glad? Relieved? He didn’t know.

 

          “Shall I see you again next week?”

 

          “I thought…I thought May was in charge of that?”

 

          Dr Banner had shaken his head. “You’re in charge of your life, Peter. And any effort to rebuild it, as well.” He then took out his appointment book and his pen. “Well, Peter?”

 

          “Same time, Dr Banner?”

 

          The doctor had nodded and jotted down Peter’s name in the appointment book.

 

          As he sipped his hot chocolate, Peter reflected that making that appointment was a good decision. He felt somewhat lighter after leaving the office.  Yes. It had been a good decision.

 

          He checked the time on his phone. May was late. Well, he had nothing to do and had more than half a cup of chocolate left. He stretched his arms and tried to do the same with his legs. Peter supressed a groan of pain.

 

          His legs were uncooperative at best, and agonizing at worst. Peter would not be able to run the next day, at least. He thought of calling Steve to ask for help and a few more fitness tips, but thought better of it.

 

          “Probably hates me ‘cause of that photo,” Peter muttered. He lay his head down on the table and drummed his fingers on its rough, wooden surface. _The photo_. He felt his cheeks burn at the thought. But also of the memory of the event in it. Of Mr Stark, and the touches they had exchanged.

 

          Peter shifted in his seat, biting his lip. He grabbed his head and groaned. _I have therapy to process, the stupid photo and all the stupid people who saw it…and Mr Stark…why am I still thinking about him? He’s probably never gonna speak to me again. How do people function all the time at all?_

 

          He heard and felt the thump of a mug being set down on his table.  

 

          “You look troubled, Peter,” rumbled Thor, “Hope you don’t mind sharing, but every other table is occupied.” He was dazzling in neon orange and electric blue.

 

          “Uhm, no. Go ahead,” Peter replied, though Thor had already sat down during his explanation. Not knowing what to say to the giant of a man, he just sipped his chocolate in silence.

 

          “So,” Thor said jovially, after a while, “are you waiting for a date?”

 

          Peter nearly choked on his mouthful of chocolate. Thor applied a swift and strong pat on his back that not only helped Peter breathe again but might have also rearranged his spine.

 

          “No, no…nothing like that,” Peter stammered afterwards, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

 

          “Oh, why not? You’re reasonably attractive and because of Wanda, people know that now.”

 

          Shit. Even _Thor_ had seen the photo.

 

          “That wasn’t a good thing,” Peter muttered, getting angry, “She basically called me…you know…she sort of implied that I was a slut.” He felt sick with anger and humiliation. “Who’s gonna date a ‘ _cheap cutie_?’”

 

          Thor hummed and rubbed his bearded chin. “You could change the narrative,” he offered.

 

          “What do you mean?”

 

          The older man shrugged and drank his coffee before continuing. “Instead of hiding, feeling sorry for yourself, you could go out and give them something else about you to talk about.”

 

          “What am I supposed to do? Streak naked through a football game?”

 

          Thor laughed. “That _would_ work but I was talking about parties. It’s summer, Peter. Kids your age are getting drunk and passing out every night all over town. Just show up to one of them.”

 

          “I – I don’t think that’s…I mean they’ll –”

 

          “Yeah, they’ll talk about you and Stark and maybe even ask you about it, but that’s your chance to set the record straight.” Thor then grinned. “Besides, everyone’s going to be drinking and there’s going to be more interesting thing to talk about afterwards.”

 

          “You know, most adults tell teens to _not_ drink,” Peter chuckled, “Cause, it’s illegal and stuff.”

 

          “I’m no hypocrite,” Thor said, smiling wistfully, “Me and my brother were drinking by the time we were both teenagers, and trust me, the trouble we got in was worth it.”

 

          The older man’s features had softened when he had mentioned his brother. Thor rubbed at his mouth and smiled again, but Peter could see the sadness in his eyes.

 

          “Besides,” Thor continued, picking up his mug, “You might meet someone special. Someone sexy and age-appropriate.”

 

          The last part made Peter narrow his eyes at the surfer. There was something about the way Thor had stressed the last words. He didn’t say anything, and mulled the advice over. The silence was getting awkward, and Peter was immensely relieved when May entered the shop.

 

          “I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetie,” said May as she came over, “Thank you for keeping him company, Thor.”

 

          “No problem at all,” said Thor, smiling at her, “I thought Peter was waiting for a date, actually.”

 

          May gave a small chuckle and thankfully remained silent on the topic. Peter knew she was curious about his first therapy session, but could not ask about it yet. So she turned to Thor and made small talk. Thor asked May if she was looking for accounting work, and when she said yes, he offered to put her in touch with On Your Bean Ends’ owner. Apparently, Thor was friendly with her and knew she was looking for someone to go over their books.

 

          Peter let their conversation wash over him. He was more comfortable not being the centre of attention anyway. Fat chance of that now, thanks to Wanda. The more he thought about what that single snapshot of a single moment had already done to his life, the more Peter felt as if he had made a wrong decision.

 

          Everything just seemed so problematic. It just seemed that Peter couldn’t do anything right, that he was screwing everything up for everyone. May had moved them here because of him. Mr Stark was most probably getting heat for apparently being a pervert because of him.

 

 _Ben’s dead because of me_.

 

          He closed his eyes and imagined he could hear the waves from within the coffee shop. In his mind, he saw a metal rail with a wildflower growing near one of its posts. It was getting nearer and nearer. He snapped his eyes open before he got too close.

 

          Peter didn’t know if he was going to stop running if he reached it again.

 

*******************

 

_June 9, 2017, 9:00 am, ante-mortem_

 

          “Jesus fucking yellow penguins, cut the shit out JARVIS!” Tony snarled as he jolted awake. The AI immediately complied, turning off the ear-splitting noises that were Tony’s personalized alarm: a police siren, cats yowling, and a looped portion of “ _Worth It_.”

 

_“Apologies, sir, but you did instruct me to wake you up at precisely nine a.m.”_

 

          Tony stood up and stretched, feeling his back pop. He had fallen asleep in front of his computer terminal, in his workshop. He had barely left the room since entering it on Tuesday. He’d have started on Monday, but he had spent that day curled up in pain from his hangover. But the moment he had felt well enough, and after a long, hot bath and a scolding from Happy (“ _You can’t drink like you did when you were twenty, Tony_ ”), he had gotten to work.

 

          By Tony’s estimate, at the rate he had gone for the past four days, he could finish the new AI in…seventeen months. Pepper would kill him if told her that but, mercifully, she had left town to begin negotiations on acquiring a manufacturing facility for their new phone.

 

          He would need help, and soon. Because if Pepper didn’t kill him, the strain was going to.

 

          His stomach rumbled just then, and Tony also remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything other than a smoothie he had made the day before. Not for the first time, Tony was glad he wasn’t a pet lover. He could barely take care of himself, much less another living being.

 

          Tony rubbed his eyes and looked at the trio of monitors in front of him. For a moment he hesitated, then he closed all the windows that were work related (being careful to save all his progress and had JARVIS back all of it up into their main server). He was going to take a break today, but first…

 

          “JARVIS, any mentions of Peter or the photograph today?” Tony had been monitoring social networking sites for the last few days for anything regarding Wanda’s post. So far, none of them had managed to find out Peter’s name or anything else about him.

 

 _“_ _Yes sir, but only as #cheapcutie and there have been only three tweets under that hashtag within the last twenty four hours,”_ the AI responded, _“I have also continued deleting any copy of the photograph that is posted through any device within twenty miles. There is also little or no interest about Mr Parker beyond that geographical range.”_

 

          Tony heaved out a sigh of relief. Was it criminal of him to use JARVIS in that capacity? Probably yes, but it was for a greater good. He was not going to allow Peter to be the next Alex From Target, and at least the picture that guy had gone viral in was innocent.

 

          Their countermeasures to keep Peter out of the internet’s interest had been successful. The original post had been removed the same afternoon and, thanks to Tony’s announcement and JARVIS’ intervention, interest over the photo and, more importantly, Peter’s identity had gone down drastically each day since.

 

          It seemed only fair that Tony do his best to shield Peter from his fuck-up. It was _his_ hand that was the cause of all this mess. He should have exercised more self-control from the very beginning. Tony had made a mistake each time he had touched Peter. He was just _seventeen_ for God’s sake. That alone should have been enough to ward Tony away.

 

          But…it had just been so long since somebody had looked at Tony the way Peter did. With such pure, innocent wanting. It seemed paradoxical, but when Peter had looked at Tony that way, he could see that the younger man wanted nothing in return but the same look. To be yearned the same way he yearned.

 

          The last person to look at Tony that way was...

 

 _No, I gave Steve the chance_ , Tony thought sullenly, _I was ready to give up everything for him. And he didn’t want me._

 

          “Get a grip, Jesus,” Tony muttered to himself, “You just woke up.”

 

          Rubbing his face, Tony got up. He was going to spend the day outside, maybe go to the beach. His schedule was wide open.

 

          “Usual lockdown protocols, JARVIS,” Tony said as he exited. He waited a little while outside the only door into the workshop as the AI secured it. Tony valued his private space, and the workshop was his sanctum, his laboratory. He spent more time in there than in the rest of the house. Not even Happy and Pepper were allowed to stay in there alone. Once the AI confirmed the workshop secured, Tony took a shower.

 

          He was towelling off when his phone buzzed. Flinging the towel to a corner, he read it.

 

_Point Break: WANNA JOIN ME AND VAL FOR BRUNCH? MAYBE HAVE FUN AFTERWARDS?_

 

          Tony grimaced at the word choice before replying.

 

_Tony: For the last time, I am NOT having a threesome with you_

 

          He was shaving when Thor responded.

 

_Point Break: ITS NOT A THREESOME. BUT IT’S A SURPRISE._

 

          Tony tried to badger Thor into telling what exactly the mystery activity was but aside from repeated assurances that it was most definitely not a threesome, the man wouldn’t say.

 

          Well, maybe a morning with Thor would do him some good. He needed to get out of his headspace, needed some excitement. You couldn’t go wrong looking for excitement from a man who texted in all caps.

 

          Just to be on the safe side, Tony wore clothes he didn’t care about.

 

*******************

 

_June 9, 2017, 6:17 pm, ante-mortem_

 

          “Well, what did you expect ‘fun’ meant to Thor?” Bruce chided Tony as they walked into On Your Bean Ends. The two of them had coffee every Friday evening, which usually involved Bruce trying to persuade Tony to go see a therapist. Not him, of course. 

 

          “I thought he meant something _normal_ humans find fun,” Tony sighed as they sat down in their usual nook, “Like dirt bike riding. Or wind surfing.” He shuddered, remembering how he had passed the morning. “I didn’t know he meant _basket weaving_. Val got bored after a half hour.”

 

          “Wait. You said ‘ _Val_ ’got bored. Not ‘ _Val and I_.’” Bruce peered at him snidely over his glasses. “How many baskets did _you_ weave?”

 

          “Don’t want to talk about it.” Tony hurriedly looked around for a waitress, but he could see Bruce smiling smugly. The shop didn’t seem too busy but there were no wait staff to be found.

 

          “I’m going over to the counter,” he declared. He would have waited, but he was getting anxious to get back to coding. Nine hours of relaxation seemed to be enough to recharge him.

 

          “Come on, Tony, not again,” Bruce whined, “Don’t make a scene. Just sit down.”

 

          “When did I ever cause a scene?” Tony snorted as he strode away. Bruce had looked like he was going to recite every instance that Tony had made a spectacle of himself.

 

          He reached the counter and found the call bell. He tapped it once, enjoying the pleasant ringing sound it made. There was still no sign of any waiters. Tony briefly wondered if he should be petulant or mature. The former won and with a shrug, he began to repeatedly ring the bell.

 

          Eventually, a slightly panicked young woman emerged from the kitchen and took his order. She was about to launch into an explanation, possibly using the word “ _slammed_ ” and “ _busy_ ” but Tony forestalled her by slipping a fifty into the tip jar. That should make up for the noise. He made his way back, weaving through tables.

 

          “Tony! What a lovely surprise!”

 

          He looked around and saw May Parker seated at a side table, with a laptop and several binders piled beside it. Tony froze for a second. Was she being sarcastic? Had she seen the photo and was actually murderously mad at him?

 

          No, the woman’s smile seemed genuine and she was waving him over. He smiled back and sat across from her. Tony caught Bruce looking at the two of them, mouthing “ _What are you doing?_ ”

 

          “So May,” Tony said, ignoring Bruce’s increasingly frantic gestures, “Whose books you cooking?”

 

          “This shop’s, actually,” May replied, “Thor introduced me to the owner and got me this account.”

 

          Tony thought it was tactful not to mention that the shop’s owner, Julie something-or-other, was constantly looking for any reason to talk to Thor. So instead he talked to her about how her week was so far. Tony listened closely for any hint that she knew about the photo, but heard nothing.

 

          His phone buzzed in his pocket, but that was just Bruce probably, begging him to come back to their table. Tony briefly wondered why the psychotherapist didn’t just come over to them. Bruce wasn’t the shy type – he only got skittish around women he was in to.

 

          But Tony wasn’t concentrating on Bruce. He was mustering the courage to ask a question, as well as the nonchalance to mask how badly he wanted to know the answer.

 

          “So, how’s Peter? What’s he up to? Is he doing okay?” There. He’d asked. Well, it was more than just one question but Tony had been dying to know how the kid was doing.

 

          He got worried when he saw May briefly look away and wet her lips before replying.

 

          “He’s fine,” she said, maybe a little too cheerfully, “He’s been going on runs in the morning, trying to get fitter. I’m glad that he’s leaving his room, but he gets up so early, which means I have to get up early to cook or else he’s just gonna eat one Pop Tart and call it breakfast.”

 

          Peter going on runs…getting all sweaty while wearing some form of athletic short. _Maybe I should go on early morning jogs_. Tony mentally slapped himself. It was not appropriate to be thinking about a sweaty, flushed Peter in front of his aunt.

 

          “Sounds a lot healthier than what I was up to at his age,” Tony said, clearing his throat a little.

 

          “Dare I ask?” May chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

 

          “You can, but I won’t tell.” He had made it sound playful, but dear God someone like May did not need to know about the cocaine, the bar brawls, the public indecency and all the rest of it. Tony was thankful that after ’99 he had been mostly forgotten by the media. It meant that online articles about his exploits were far and few in between.

 

          May suddenly straightened up. “Oh, here’s Peter! Sweetie, over here!”

 

 _Shit_. Tony was not ready to see the kid. Regret and shame over the entire “ _seemed to have cupped your ass_ ” photo battled with an almost teenager-like lust.

 

          Peter was in a worn navy blue hoodie, a faded shirt and shorts. He was carrying a plastic shopping bag, looking eager. The expression dropped when he saw Tony.

 

          It would have been amusing, seeing shock, glee and embarrassment all flicker on his open face. But the way the kid hesitated as he approached, and the flush rising to his cheeks…

 

 _He saw the photo…and the hashtags_ , Tony thought with rising dread.

 

          “Hey Peter,” he said, smoothly, once the kid had shuffled his way to them.

 

          “He – Hey, Mr Stark…uhm hello.” Peter sat down slowly beside May, clutching the plastic bag to his chest. His aunt glanced at him, concerned.

 

          “What’s in the bag, Pete?” Tony asked, trying to put the boy at ease. If Tony was right, and the kid had seen the photo, why hadn’t he told his aunt? Maybe he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

 

          Peter mumbled something in response, but it was pitched so low that Tony doubted even May had heard it. So she answered for him.

 

          “Computer parts, mostly. Peter’s a genius at fixing up stuff, and even making things out of recycled stuff from like dumpsters.” May indicated her laptop. “Once, I dropped this down three flights of stairs, and Peter fixed it right up.” 

 

          Tony felt his eyebrows climb. “That’s impressive, kid. How long did it take you?”

 

          “Three, uhm…three days after...after I scrounged the parts,” Peter mumbled into the bag. It was a little louder than the last time, but Tony had to shift forward in his seat to catch it.

 

          “You should see his laptop,” May said, proudly, “He literally _made_ it from parts. It works better than mine, sometimes.”

 

          Peter didn’t say anything but smiled weakly at his aunt. He still hadn’t looked at Tony.

 

          An idea crawled into Tony’s brain. It was risky, with him knowing so little about Peter, but he was looking forward to knowing more about the kid. You could always solve for unknown variables, given enough time and effort.

 

          “How are you at coding and programming, kid?”

 

          Peter swallowed and finally met Tony’s gaze. “I’m…I’m okay.”

 

          Tony raised an eyebrow. “Just ‘okay’? I don’t believe you, kid.”

 

          Under the table, Tony stretched his legs. _What the fuck am I doing?_ he thought, as his foot touched one of Peter’s. _I should stop_ , he thought as he raised his foot a little and started rubbing it on Peter’s bare calf.

 

          “He’s just being humble,” May interrupted, “His teachers back in New York said he was amazing at it.”

 

          Tony saw Peter bite his lips and glance downwards. Tony felt bad suddenly. He should not have done that, teasing the boy so soon after the entire photo thing. He pulled his leg back.

 

          He was surprised when he felt Peter’s leg extend under the table. The kid’s foot hesitated at first before Peter started rubbing it up Tony’s leg.

 

          “Hey, kid, if you’ve got talent, you don’t hide it,” Tony said, voice cool as he continued rubbing their legs together. All the physical contact was starting to affect him. _Jesus, not in front of the kid’s aunt_ ¸ he scolded himself, _control yourself!_

 

          “Tell you what,” Tony said, pulling back his leg, “I’m actually looking for assistant programmers for a project I’m working on.” Peter had looked a little down when he had disentangled their legs, but perked up for the first time.

 

          “Seriously?” Peter asked, that warmth and fierce curiosity Tony had seen at the Summer Fair returning.

 

          “I never joke about my projects,” Tony said, grinning, “Why don’t you swing by Stark Tech anytime next week. I’ll give you a tour when you show me what you’ve got. I have some pretty cool toys in the labs.” _Well, it’s now or never_. He took out one of his business cards and a pen. He quickly scrawled another number on its back.

 

          “These are my work numbers, but the one in my back is the one for my personal phone,” Tony said, holding out the card to Peter, “You can reach me through all of them, but be warned, I’m usually not in my office.”

 

          Peter took the card reverently. “Th – Thank you, Mr Stark! This is awesome!”

 

          Tony stood up. “Well, I’ve kept my friend waiting long enough. May, its good seeing you.” He turned to Peter. “Give me a heads up via text or something about when you’re dropping by.” The moment May looked away, Tony winked at Peter.

 

          There was something so incredibly attractive about the way Peter blushed, and how he bit his lips.

 

          Tony walked away, back to an irate Bruce. His order was stone cold, and Bruce had already finished his usual order of baked goods.

 

          “What the hell, Tony?” Bruce huffed, “We haven’t talked all week and you ditch me to flirt with May Parker the first chance you get?”

 

          Tony silently thanked whichever deity was nearby that Bruce thought it was May he had flirted with. He spent the rest of their time together making up for leaving Bruce, which included buying the man some of On Your Bean Ends’ most expensive cake slices. Bruce was easily appeased by pastries.

 

          It was only when he was driving back to his house that Tony realized something. “How the fuck does Bruce know May?” he wondered aloud. He would have thought about it some more, but then his phone beeped. There was text from a number he didn’t recognize.

 

 _Thanks Mr Stark :)_ , was all it said. But Tony didn’t stop smiling for a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Nine will hopefully be uploaded before 2k19 but yeah, probs not. I was making good headway until I made the mistake of thinking that, because I know the outcome already, Madeline Miller's "The Song of Achilles" would hurt less. 
> 
> (In Miriam Lass voice): I was wrong. I WAS SOOO WRONG
> 
> So yeah, needless to say I am devastated haha. But will get back to writing it as soon as my tear ducts malfunction already.
> 
> Hope you all have a great December! And, as usual, comments and kudos = love


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